


i'll be bad to you.

by ohioinmymind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohioinmymind/pseuds/ohioinmymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Monogamy, or whatever you call it--I'm starting to think it's not for everybody. Most of us are rushing into it anyways, you know what I'm saying. You're not rushing for love, and I'm not here to judge. So let's neglect the "what if"'s and make it do what it does."</p><p>(Or, where Zayn and Liam neglect the "what-if"'s, and Zayn actively tries not to fall for his sister's douchey boyfriend while she's in another country.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. but the problem is probably a deep past. still, i'm feeling it's something i need bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, don't kill me. 
> 
> So this was supposed to be a oneshot but I'm impatient and yeah. 
> 
> All song lyrics belong to Wale, and One Direction belongs to themselves.
> 
> Enjoy! xx Tell me if you hate it, eep.

Zayn hears a lot of people say that love is supposed to _complete_ you, that the person you spend the rest of your life with will highlight the most excellent parts of you and compliment you in only the best of ways. They’re supposed to know when to push and when to pull and when to gather you up and put together the fragile pieces of whatever mess you’ve been left in.

Zayn calls bullshit on that, solely because the only thing Liam will ever _completely_ do is eventually drive Zayn crazy. If he hasn’t already.

He doesn’t think love is meant to be sweet, not all the way at least. Zayn wants a love that’s burning. That creates a fire in his belly that he can’t get rid of without the rough texture of wide hands and soft, biting lips. Zayn’s attracted to the idea of a person who wrecks you, fully ruins you for the next person in line and the one after that and so on and so forth until you’re married, and you have kids padding around but you lay down at night with flashes of that someone in your head. Images of their eyes and their jaw and their smile.

Zayn thinks love is supposed to make you fall to your knees at both ends of the totem, lost without the other half of you and sagging in relief when they’re by your side.

It’s dramatic as all fuck, thinking all of those things. And it’s stupid, because Liam is a prick; a prick that kisses Zayn even when he has toothpaste on the sides of his mouth, and a prick that makes horrible chicken soup for Zayn when he’s bedridden with the flu. But a prick, nonetheless.

But that’s Zayn’s pri—wait, no. _Yeah, that sounded better in Zayn’s head._ Anyway, Liam’s a dick, but Zayn loves him anyway.

Even if there were times where Zayn calling Liam his prick sounded leaps and bounds more appealing than admitting he felt anything other than severe detest for the man who used to bang his twin sister.

It’s all very complicated.

/////

“I don’t see why you don’t just come and stay with me.”

That’s how it always starts with the two of them; Zayn and Veronica. She’s older than him, by mere minutes because no twins were actually seconds apart; that was bullshit. But in those twenty-two minutes she retained a diva personality and a rather large brain, both things that haunted Zayn when he was younger, now, and probably will until one of them dies of natural causes. Or Zayn kills her. There are days when Zayn wouldn’t mind being an only child, not one bit.

He could use the attention.

Like now, when Zayn’s busy packing his things into two small suitcases, ones that look a hell of a lot smaller than they did when he unpacked them four years ago. Granted, during his stay at St. Paul’s he’s accumulated much more than several changes of clothes and that pack of cigarettes he had snuck from Harry’s mum when she wasn’t looking. And while he’s trying to shove his life—paintings, knick knacks, a bunch of socks he didn’t know he had, and every book he’s collected in the duration of 1460 days, give or take a leap year—into a leather-bound travel case and a fairly large duffle, his sister wants to talk his goddamn ears off via telephone.

“I can’t stay with you because— _damn it, Josh I’m going to kill you_ —well, because you’re you and I’m me and that’s a terrible combination.” Zayn picks up soiled underwear that is way too brightly colored to belong to him, yet they’re under his bed. Not surprising. “You’re bossy and messy and you don’t do well with sharing bathroom space.”

Veronica snorts and Zayn hates the way it sounds, it’s ugly and annoying and high-pitched and he cringes at the thought of living in close quarters with his sister for the first time since he was fifteen. “Please,” she says. “You take more time in the bathroom than I can ever hope to.”

“And my hair looks better than yours six out of seven days of the week.”

“What about the other day?”

“On the seventh day, I rest.”

Zayn smiles at her laugh, that’s a sound he can tolerate. He shuffles through shirts, tossing away several that won’t fit over the small biceps Josh had been helping him work on since Zayn came back from Hols a couple pounds heavier. His mum was a good cook and Veronica hadn’t brought her terrible excuse for a boyfriend, or the other specimen she carted around as a best mate and Zayn was free to eat without the scrutiny of judgmental eyes for once.

“Maybe that’s why you should come up here and crash with me, yeah? Give me some good hair tips?” She stops talking and Zayn thinks she might be stopping to check herself out in one of the many mirrors she most likely has lining her flat. It runs in the family. “I’m getting tired of extensions, bruv. Too much work and they hurt like a _bitch_ when Liam pulls—”

Zayn stops her right there because _yuck_. “Nope. No ma’am, that’s a coin in the swear jar. We don’t say vile things like that.”

“What, bitch?” And she knows, she knows that’s not what Zayn is referring to. He doesn’t give a shit if she says bitch, actually, he’s sure he called her one earlier when she giggled at the sound of him tripping over Josh’s misbegotten drum stick and falling on his face. In reality, there is no swear jar. “That’s a reach, Malik, but I’ll bite.”

“No, _Liam._ You’re not allowed to say his name in my presence—or while you’re on the phone with me,” he corrects before she can get the smart retort off the tip of her tongue. “It’s a dreadful name that belongs to a dreadful man and I refuse to be subjected to that shit.”

Zayn folds an Ironman tee-shirt more angrily than he intended as his sister laughs it up, seeing as this is all hilarious to her for reasons that Zayn cannot fathom. “It’s going to be hard for him not to get brought up when you’re living here at the apartment, considering we split rent with El. Also, you just said his name, so drop a bill in whatever stupid bucket you keep for swearing, kiddo.”

There are so many things that Zayn can find wrong with those few sentences that it’s almost funny, but not quite. He puts V on speakerphone—he tried hanging up earlier in the day, but she just called right back, three separate times—because that’s the only way Zayn’s going to get these clothes folded properly and before his train leaves.

“That’s exactly why I would never dream of stepping foot in your flat, much less actually trusting _him_ not to murder me or fart on my pillow while I’m sleeping.” She laughs, but Liam _has done_ the latter before and Zayn certainly wasn’t laughing then. “Plus, living with my sister, the guy who’s permanently doing my sister, and the girl who _wants_ to be doing my sister sounds like a living nightmare. And I’m not a fucking kiddo. You’re twenty minutes older.”

“Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two?” Zayn is irritated that during his rant, which withheld some very good material, all Veronica could concentrate on were the two minutes she’d pre-dated Zayn into this world. “I’m hanging up, now. I’m hanging up and never accepting calls from you as long as I’m breathing. Goodbye.”

“Wait!” And he waits, because he wasn’t really going to hang up anyway, hadn’t even put down the pants he was folding to pick up his phone. Zayn didn’t have anyone else to talk to, and as insufferable as his sister is, he’d rather hear her ramble on about the fairy tales of rooming together with his twin that be stuck in this room with nothing but the sound of his own complaining groans. “All I’m saying is that if you move in here, you’ll have your own room, we have a guest area that you can make your own. Liam pays for cable and Eleanor pays for the internet.”

“What do you pay for,” he asks accusingly, because Veronica has a tendency to be a free-loader.

“That’s not important,” she answers hurriedly. “I’m not even going to be here all summer. I’m actually leaving for France in three days.”

Zayn is intrigued, then. Eleanor he can deal with, especially if Veronica and her worse half are out of the flat for the remainder of the time Zayn is staying there. Which will only be until he finds a job and then a place of his own. Finished, he zips up a finished suitcase, glad that at least three-fourths of what he’s taking had been able to fit into the cramped space of his bag. Zayn lays on his stripped bed and puts his phone on his chest, taking a break and mentally going over logistics in his head as Veronica rambles on.

A trait she developed all on her own, with no Malik genetics involved.

“Eleanor’s coming with me for a couple weeks,” she explains, sounding more excited than someone should about taking their best friend along on a romantic getaway. “She’s got vacation time lined up, so it’s all settled. This freelance gig just means the world to me, yeah? And I want her to be there to calm me down when I start freaking out.”

“Why can’t your worse half do that for you?” Zayn stops to think.

Veronica snorts and Zayn can see where he made his mistake. Liam is about as calming as a bull in a china shop. “You know Liam just pisses me off more when I’m mad. El’s not like that.” Zayn doesn’t comment on the obvious affection in her voice.

“Wait, you got the freelance gig? Dude, congrats! I’m happy for you, V. that’s great, really. Graduating two years early really did you wonders, hmm?”

“Yeah, it’s awesome, innit? I’m super stoked. I want to take Liam with me, too. But he just can’t take the time off.”

That was not in the plans. “Wait, so I’d be stuck in the flat _—with Liam—_ for two months?” Zayn shakes his head, even if she can’t see it. It’s for personal reasons, ones that have to do with dignity and honor and hatred and Liam Payne. “Absolutely not. There’s no way in hell—”

“Good thing it’s not in hell, then, right? As bad as Leeds may be, doll,it’s not hell.”

“I’m not staying with you, V. I’m not staying with _him._ He’s a pain in the ass.”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh— _oh,_ that’s disgusting. Yeah, I’m definitely staying with mum.”

“Suit yourself, champ. You might want a heads up, though.”

“Whatever you say to me is not going to convince me to stay the entire summer, in your flat, that you share—with Liam _‘look-at-me-I-drive-a-muscle-car-I’m-a-douche-bag’_ Payne. No way.”

“Mum’s on a diet for the summer.”

“I’ll be there in the morning.”

And with the laughter of his big sister in his ear, he hangs up the phone and starts packing more things so he’ll be able to go to sleep early. That way, he’ll have enough time to mentally prepare himself for the horrible summer that lies before him.

Zayn is only going there _—only—_ because he hates Liam _slightly_ less than he hates his mother’s vegetarian lasagna.

/////

That’s the longer version of how Zayn ends up standing in his socks on the cold tile floor of Veronica’s kitchen. The moon shines jarringly through the window, and Zayn puts the spare key Eleanor left for him underneath the stray spatula on the counter. The place is definitely bigger than he expected, oddly so, because there’s no way that only three people live here and actually afford it. Not with Liam’s expensive pipedream of becoming a mechanic. Not to mention he has a very time picturing Eleanor doing anything that involves skill and hard work.

But Zayn’s being a dick, so he’ll give them the benefit of the doubt before he starts poking his nose around and asking questions. He just sincerely hopes they aren’t running any kind of illegal schemes inside these four walls, even if Veronica has insisted several times she has the face—the same face Zayn has—and body to become an exotic dancer. Because calling them strippers was apparently _so 2007._ Whatever that meant.

“Shit,” Zayn curses, tripping over his own bags he’d thoughtlessly left in the middle of the living room floor as he paces the place. “Dammit, that hurt.”

He’s not particularly in a great mood. Zayn’s late due to his slow train and a woman who insisted on pulling the fire alarm when she burnt her croissant in the small microwave oven near the exit doors. At that point in time, Zayn was nearly the committer of a very serious crime he once thought he’d only commit on Liam or Veronica, seeing as murder was a grave charge and he really wanted to enjoy the activity if he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail for it. He refrained at the last minute, now Zayn simply never wants to see a croissant again at any given time in his life.

“See, you look all grown up, but you’re still talking to yourself like you did when you were a runt. I guess some things really never do change.”

Zayn groans, loud and annoyed-like because he would recognize that voice anywhere. At home, when Liam plagued his house long before he left for boarding school, when he was still every bit of a dick as Zayn is sure he is now. In the grocery store when Liam would holler his name down the aisles to draw attention to Zayn that Liam knew he didn’t want. In the deep pits of hell, where Liam will probably end up for some reason or another, and Zayn will join him for sending him there with a firm grip around his neck. The thing attached to the annoyingly large head of his, responsible for the filthy mouth that Zayn longed to place a thick strip of tape over.

Zayn sets his jaw and ignores the fact that the small breath of laughter coming out of Liam’s mouth means he saw it. His clothes don’t fit right, because he’s a broke, recently graduated high school student with arms and calf muscles he hasn’t yet gotten the chance to grow into. So he’s stiff when he speaks, but it has nothing—nothing—to do with Liam’s naked smirk and upper body and everything to do with his restricting clothing and crippling annoyance for the jackass in front of him.

“All this time I was gone, I was thinking you’d mature,” he doesn’t turn all the way around, just throws a callous look over his shoulder and tries pulling out a blanket he knows he put in this stupid suitcase. He’ll crash on the couch tonight, because he doesn’t want to scour the apartment in the middle of the night. And he doesn’t dare ask Liam for directions to his sleeping quarters to only end up snuggling up to Eleanor in the middle of the night and waking up with a black eye in the morning. “But seeing you stand there in your Batman briefs, being all of twenty-three years old, I can see that some things really never do change.”

Liam clicks his tongue and makes a show of sitting on the couch, right on the blanket Zayn had just laid out. “You’re still as mean as you were when you left here, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid, Liam. I’m not a kid.”

Zayn can’t see much, the darkness of the room won’t allow it, but he can see the outline of the big smile that’s spreading on Liam’s face as Zayn sits on the complete opposite end, waiting for him to go away. Zayn wishes he could make Liam disappear permanently, but he’ll settle for temporarily in order for him to catch a few hours of sleep before he’s bombarded with the headache that is his sister and his mum in the morning.

Liam taps the lamp on the table next to him and Zayn really wishes he hadn’t. “You aren’t, are you?” And Zayn doesn’t like the way Liam is looking at him, doesn’t like the way it unsettles him in a way that he can’t quite put into any category he’s created for Liam; annoyance, anger, both. “You got rid of the glasses, the braces. You’re not even chub—you’re fit, man. Real fit.”

Zayn slaps his hand away, because Liam is touching him, rubbing his thumb over Zayn’s eyebrows and in between his nose, where he used to get really bad headaches from his classes and Liam would sneak him hardcore painkillers. There was a large probability that he was trying to make sure that was the last migraine Zayn ever had, but his plan backfired and instead of convulsing on the floor, Zayn slept peacefully for weeks after that.

Also, Zayn has no idea where Liam’s hands have been, the sharp curve of his fingers giving Zayn thoughts that he’ll need proper bleach to erase, and he doesn’t want those things anywhere near his face.

“Don’t touch me.” Unsurprisingly, at this, Liam scoots closer and Zayn gets a better look at him— _good god, where did those abs come from, that chest hair, does Zayn_ like _chest hair???—_ before he’s scooting farther away, trapping himself right against the arm rest and the solid line of Liam’s body. “Liam, I’m serious. I’m trying to go to sleep; you can annoy me in the morning. And every day after that, but do not mess with my sleeping schedule. I’m not above causing physical— _Liam._ ”

Zayn nearly squeals, but he doesn’t give Liam the satisfaction. Which, shouldn’t be a problem this early in his stay at Veronica’s. But Liam has his arm around Zayn’s neck and his gross amount of armpit hair on Zayn’s neck and _ugh._

He hates this. Hates it already and he hasn’t been here more than twenty minutes.

He squeezes Zayn’s arm and Zayn refuses to admit he blushes. “You might just give me a run for my money, mate. You went and got all cute on me.” Zayn rolls his eyes and barely stops himself from hurling up his late lunch in the back of his throat. Liam laughs at the gagging noises Zayn makes and runs a finger up his arm and smiles down at him, grin getting lost in the stubble-lined cheeks of his face. “Don’t be so stuck up, though. I think we’ll have an amazing summer, me and you. Real bonding time.”

Liam laughs and stands up, but Zayn groans once more. He doesn’t care if he wakes up the whole apartment—well, actually, waking up Eleanor is probably not the smartest idea he’s ever had—this fucking sucks, but he has no other choice, really. Regardless if his mum is on a diet or not, he has no desire to move back home after they sent him away for four fucking—not going there. Zayn has to put up with Liam, that’s the bottom line.

Liam taps long fingers on the lamp and Zayn does not stare. At all. Nor does he imagine those fingers in places that would make him arch and scream and moan because it hasn’t been _that_ long and he hates Liam. Hates him. Liam takes long strides out of the living room and down the hall and Zayn does admire the flexing of muscles in his back. Too bad Liam’s a prick, he thinks. He’s mighty fit.

“Liam,” he calls, obviously not being able to let Liam walk away thinking he won this time. It’s too early to start admitting defeat. When he turns around, Zayn can make out a smirk, just barely. Maybe he imagines it, even. “Me being cuter than you was never up for discussion. It was never even a _question,_ mate. I’ve got my mother’s cheekbones.”

Liam laughs at that and maybe Zayn falls asleep with a smile on his face.

Maybe.

/////

Zayn wakes up with a headache and a boner, one of which he smothers into the cushions of the couch beneath him. The other he blames on the lump of bones and energy on his back in the form of his big sister.

“Rise and shine, sweet’ums!” She tugs on Zayn’s ears with her claws—fingers—and Zayn shoves her off, huffing into his pillow in satisfaction when she rolls gracelessly onto the floor. “I let you sleep on my couch and this is how you treat me? I’m offended.”

He mumbles something along the lines of, “Go away and never come back again.”

Veronica goes away, he can hear her padding into another room, but he also hears her come back, more feet clambering on the floor beside her. “I brought you a present, yeah? Will you get up for that? It’s wrapped in pretty curls and freakishly long legs. Speaking of, Harry, you have to help me with that workout, those jeans are doing wonders for you, love.”

Zayn sits up quickly at the mention of his old pal, one he hasn’t seen in ages, their schedules never coinciding when they were back home for the Winter Holidays. “Harold,” he says, grinning and opening his arms for a hug. Harry’s on him before Zayn can even sit up properly and they’re crashing back into the couch, Harry’s long body trapping Zayn to the down under his head. “It’s good to see you,” Zayn says into his neck, letting Harry wrap his arms behind Zayn’s back. “Fuck, it’s really good to see you. I missed you.”

“I can tell.” And Zayn doesn’t understand until Harry grinds his hips into Zayn’s erection between them, brilliant smirk on his face when he does so, lips meeting the flush of Zayn’s cheeks. “You’re _hot,_ Zayn.” For once Zayn can appreciate someone’s eyes on him, really appreciate it. He bites at his lip and laughs when Harry dips to press a kiss to Zayn’s other cheek, making noises of protest. “Boarding school made you a horrible person, didn’t’ it? No more smart and quiet Zayn, you’re downright cheeky.”

Zayn shrugs but looks at Harry under the thick strands of his eyelashes and runs slow hands up his back, then his chest before pushing him off. “I guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

He’s dumb to think his good day will last, but he does and it makes it all the more disappointing when Liam traipses through the living room, bowl of cereal in one hand, the other one down his pants, scratching himself like they don’t have company. Like he wasn’t raised with manners. To make things worse, he flicks Zayn, right in the middle of his forehead, with a mumble of, “No sex on the couch, kid.”

With the same hand he just touched his balls with.

“Touch me again, Liam,” he fumes, using Harry’s shirt to wipe the possible diseases from his face, un-amused that Harry is in hysterics himself, along with Veronica and Eleanor who just joined them in the living room. “I beg you, make _my day._ I swear—”

“Usually takes me a little longer to get ‘em begging, but an easy lay is still a lay. Where do you want me to touch you, hmm?”

Zayn opens his mouth, several times in fact but he can’t speak. He’s tried, words won’t _come out_. And Liam’s sitting there, legs crossed, Veronica perched on the side of the chair, white leather making them appear more pure than Zayn knows they are. He has no shirt on, which Zayn thinks might be a problem because Liam’s chest and that damn tapering of hair starting from his navel and traveling into his boxers, that’s going to be a problem. Zayn can’t keep forgetting that Liam is a pretentious asshole every time he’s unclothed from the hips and up.

“Liam, leave him alone.” Veronica slaps Liam’s arm and Zayn gets a shred of contentment when milk spills over the side of his bowl and makes it’s way down his chest, and then past his stomach and to the matting of hair—okay, no. “Look at him, he’s blushing. Be nice. I need you to take him and Harry to mum’s.”

“Sure,” Liam agrees at the same time Zayn shouts, “Absolutely _not._ ”

Harry looks at him sympathetically and Veronica eyes him with disappointment. Her fingers are intimidating and remind Zayn too much of talons for him to be comfortable. “You two are going to have to get over whatever shit is between you. Bad blood, sexual attraction, years of torment, I don’t care. You’re both grown—”

“Some of us more than others.”

“Definite sexual attraction.”

“Not even in your wildest dreams, Liam.”

“Zayn, stop it.”

“—And I don’t want to deal with your crap all summer.”

Liam reminds her with a roll of his eyes, “Babe, you’re not going to be here most of the summer. And I don’t have a problem,” he says with a smile that has Zayn looking in another direction. “I can be civil, V. What time do you want me to drive them to Tricia’s?”

Zayn gawks at the assumption that he is the one with the hostility. Well, he is hostile, that’s plain as day, but he has very good reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with Liam’s smile or eyebrows or—dammit, he has his reasons. “You just rubbed your balls on my face.”

“I rubbed my _hand_ on your face,” Liam’s eyes meet Zayn’s and Zayn doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like this predicament one bit, wants to take off with Harry and never see Liam’s new-grown body in this lifetime or the next.

“The hand that you used to play with your balls.”

“I _scratched_ my nuts.”

Zayn hollers, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. “So you admit it!”

The hairs on his arm stand at attention when Liam laughs it off like it means nothing to him - which it doesn’t, obviously. Harry tugs Zayn up by the hand, the selection of rings on his fingers intriguing Zayn long enough to let Harry use his taller, broader frame to drag him out of the room and into the bathroom. Harry gives him a look of approval, looking him up and down in this stupid shirt that makes Zayn feel like an idiot.

“You two are going to kill each other,” he says, but his eyes tell Zayn he’s thinking of something different, something along the lines of pressing his hands into Zayn’s waist and imprinting marks with the rings on his deft fingers. “I’ll call Gemma; have her take us out of here for a while. You want to?”

No, Zayn doesn’t want to. Harry’s a great pal, but he’s trouble, from the high-rise of his hair—which Zayn needs to style to a decent height before they go out in public together, Christ—to the rugged condition of the boots on his wide feet. Zayn pushes him away with one hand, letting Harry get a friendly kiss to the ear before Zayn is opening the door for him and gesturing for him to let himself out.

“I’m fine, Harry. I’ve was handling Liam for years before—you know.” Before Harry asked Zayn to tag along, making him an accomplice to the dumbest misdeed he can think of. Zayn thinks of the flames sometimes, remembers watching the building go up in smoke along with his hopes for the future. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick, get his DNA off my face,” he spits, smiling sweetly, hoping he takes the hint without offense. “I’m sure my mum will be happy to see you.”

She won’t.

The sculpted brows on Harry’s face raise, wiggling a bit while he moves out of the way when Liam comes storming down the wide corridor of the hallway. “I’m sure she will. See you in shake.”

Liam stands across from them, the space between them large enough to be comfortable and uncomfortable in the same instance. Harry is visibly irritated, and as regretful as Zayn is to say this, he’s thankful for Liam’s intimidating presence. Liam eyes Zayn’s oldest friend with speculative eyes, hard and intrusive, almost calculating. As if he can feel the heat of Liam’s gaze on his back, Harry turns to regard him with an unimpressed line of his lips. Liam holds up towels, the reason he’s here, but neither of them budge.

Zayn can feel the testosterone seeping out of their pores. He wishes they would just pee on something to assert their claim and leave him alone to take a damn shower.

“I’ll be in the living room, then.” Harry speaks quietly. And if he goes out of his way to purposefully nudge Liam’s shoulder, Zayn’s going to pretend he didn’t share a moment with Liam while they both rolled their eyes.

Liam and Zayn don’t have moments.

And then Harry’s gone, walking down the hall, leaving Zayn to stare after him and wonder what he’d gotten himself into by coming back here. Who would have ever thought that returning to the town you once enjoyed calling your home would leave you in inescapable turmoil? He should have known he couldn’t come back, that he and Harry definitely shouldn’t be in the same place at one time, no matter how helpful Veronica thinks she’s being.

“You look like you have a lot on your mind.” For the second time, Liam scares Zayn to the brink of death like the bastard he is. He stands in the doorway, walking into Zayn’s personal space like he’s welcome. He’s not. “Didn’t mean to startle you, even though you clearly saw me standing here.”

Zayn takes Liam’s sarcasm in stride, choosing to take the high road for once this morning. He pries the towels from Liam’s hands, hissing when the static he must have accumulated from the bathroom carpet shocks the both of them when their hands brush. Liam doesn’t even move a muscle, which annoys Zayn. He just stands there looking at Zayn with something too soft to match the ramifications of their relationship.

“Are you sure you want him around?” Liam props himself up on the doorframe when he starts slipping and Zayn can admit that he notices the movement of the musculature in his physique. Only to himself, though. “I told V it was a stupid idea. I can get him out of here if you want. Dude’s kind of a douche.”

Zayn starts to say yeah, that having Harry around was good in theory, but in actuality it was a recipe for disaster. There was a reason Zayn was sent away from his family like an outcast, convicted by his father to spend his days far, far away from Harry Styles and any fiery reminders of him. But it was good for him and maybe he changed, maybe he and Zayn could be friends again without burning the hopes and dreams of innocent people. Without burning the remaining bridges between them.

“Between me and you, Li, I don’t think you have any room to call someone a douche,” but Zayn says it with a smile, one that Liam returns and it’s a moment that Zayn has to mark down on some kind of calendar; he and Liam smiling without causing one another harm. “Harry is harmless,” he explains offhandedly, slapping at Liam’s chest when he laughs. “He is. We were stupid teenagers back then. I’m sure he’s grown up by now. I have.”

“Teenagers sneak out and eat too many chips, they don’t burn down—” Zayn is surprised that Liam sees something in his eyes, something that tells him to stop. Zayn doesn’t want to go down that road, least of all with Liam. His voice is gentle when he continues, words caressing Zayn into a temptation, to want and talk and touch and _ew._ No. “But you don’t have to worry about that, me not thinking you’re grown up now. I have decent eyes, you know.”

Last night flashes in his mind, when Liam had been forward about just how much Zayn had matured, dark eyes lingering on his arms and neck, traveling down and around to the rest of Zayn’s new body. Something catches in his throat because he sees that look again, more hot this time and Zayn panics, moves back, but not fast enough to avoid Liam catching his hand.

“What are you—” and Zayn’s flush to Liam’s chest, towels falling silently on the floor between them while Zayn is carted father into the space Liam is occupying. He feels hands on his back and then his waist, then Liam’s trickling his fingers down Zayn’s arm, feeling and squeezing and this is wrong for so many reasons but Zayn can’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to. “Liam, we can’t. We can’t do this.”

“Hush.” One of his hands links with Zayn and why the hell is he not pulling away? Why is Zayn breathing in air that’s circulating from Liam’s mouth and not crying out for help? Why is he arching into the gentle touch of the one person in this house he’s felt nothing but hate for, for as long as he can remember? Because it’s fucking hot, that’s why. “Feel this, babe.”

He does; Zayn nods, teeth to his bottom lip and he lets Liam drag Zayn’s hand down his chest, through heavy splattering of hair that Zayn is strangely attracted to. Liam’s lifting the waistband of his boxers and Zayn is realizing that his is his sister’s boyfriend, and he can’t do this, not with her laughing down the hall, thinking everything is okay. He can’t do this at all.

“See? I have briefs on under my boxers.”

What the fuck?

Zayn jumps back, unsure of just what’s going on. Liam stretches his boxers, revealing the tight briefs underneath and Zayn is confused why he needs to see this. He thought they were going to—

“Did you just play me?”

Liam laughs, and if Zayn thought for a second that he might like the sound before, Liam proves him wrong. His eyes crinkle, and it’s adorable— _deplorable_. Aggravating in a very childish way. “Just didn’t want you to scrub your face too hard in the shower.” He reaches out to rub at Zayn’s hair, like he’s a pet dog that needs approval, reassurance of some kind. “Just looking out for you, kid.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill—”

“Have a nice shower, Zayn.”

/////

Zayn sees his mum, gives her a hug and lets her talk for over an hour about the schedule she highly suggests he should be on, one involving his place in society, mingling and such. Bumping elbows with people that could lend him a hand in their small shops and business until Zayn stops to figure out what he wants to do with the remainder of his life in Leeds.

Tea swirls in a cup, round and round and round until Zayn’s brain gets foggy, until he’s lost in the circle of bubbles and liquid and his mother has stopped talking long enough for him to fill his lungs with air that’s not filled with the poison of false encouragement and a cold contempt for the lad sitting next to him.

“What about you, Harold?” Zayn’s mother means well, and she really does love her son, both of her children, just doesn’t know how to handle them. Harry, though, she’s got him figured out. “I thought Anne and Robin moved after—after the accident.”

That’s all anyone calls it and Zayn can’t help but roll his eyes, because it was one house, four years ago, and no one was inside. There are more details to it than that, memories lost in the ashes and children scrapping their knees, falling into the dust and weeping over lost valuables and a childhood vanished with the flick of a lighter. Zayn was just thankful that Harry had been smart enough to check the inside before he lied to Zayn, telling him it was abandoned.

But that’s enough of that.

“Gemma lives here, just a few streets over from Veronica and Liam.” His hands wring and Zayn thinks he deserves to fidget just a bit. He looks to Zayn for assistance, but he doesn’t see how much help he would be against the beady squint of his mum’s eyes. “I got out of school about a year back, Milan education is fast like that. I was staying with Robin and Mum, but V called me, said Zayn was coming back. I thought I’d catch up a bit.”

“When will you be leaving?”

Zayn interferes then, nudging Liam when he laughs at the bluntness of his near mother-in-law. “Tricia, that’s enough.” Zayn gets his own set of slatted eyes for calling her by her first name, but he stopped calling her mum on a regular basis a long time ago. “I think we should get going, I still have to unpack back at Veronica’s.”

Liam punches his shoulder. “It’s your flat, too, now.”

Zayn rubs his arm and sends a tight grin Liam’s way, not pleased at all at the genuine amusement he receives back. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Tricia claps her hands and the dangling of the bangles on her wrist make it miserable to stand there for too much longer. “I’m glad to see the two of you getting along better. Distance must really make the heart grow fonder. I’m sure Veronica and your father will be pleased.”

She bounces on the balls of her feet and Zayn wants to hurl on the pristine white shine of her shoes. Zayn sees Harry make a face and his arms cross immediately as he stomps toward the front door. Zayn doesn’t know what the fuck that’s about, but he can’t really concentrate with Liam’s grubby hands settling on the small of Zayn’s waist, chin hooking over his shoulder.

Zayn looks at him incredulously, is he serious? Does he find the idea of death intriguing? Zayn just doesn’t get it. He rubs his hands up Zayn’s sides, squeezing his hips. “I’m just glad Veronica has her little brother back. She’s sad she won’t get to spend much time with him before she’s off to France, but she knows he’ll be in good hands here with me.”

Tricia all but faints when Liam speaks directly to her; Zayn thinks it’s ridiculous how one person can open their mouth and reduce another person into a puddle of hormones and a fluttering heart. Principally, if that person if Liam; six feet of crude and childish behavior, mild-humored jokes and a bad case of the smirks.

“You’re such a darling, Liam. Isn’t he darling?” Zayn doesn’t know what she expects when she directs the question at Zayn, but she isn’t going to get an agreement, that’s for certain. Zayn places his hands over Liam’s, stuttering at how well they fit—pinching him. There is no stuttering. Liam still doesn’t move and Zayn’s mum is huffing at him. “Forget I said anything. Liam, you make sure this one comes to visit his dear old mother this summer, you hear me?”

She leans across Zayn to pinch at Liam’s cheeks, seeing as for some reason Liam is still in his space, breathing down his neck with his stupid beard scratching the skin at Zayn’s collar. “I’ll bring him by a few times, Mrs. Malik. We’ll see if we can get him a car of his own to drive around, then he can come see you whenever he wants.”

“No, no,” she shakes her head. “If you don’t bring him, he’ll never come.”

He won’t.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

It is.

“Well, then, you should get going.” And Zayn agrees, stiffly hugging her and exhaling in relief when Liam has to release Zayn to give Tricia a goodbye hug. Zayn doesn’t run but it’s a near thing, he hears his mum tell Liam, “Make sure you drop Harry off before you go home, love. I’m sure he’d like to spend some time with his sister. Do stop by more often, Liam. It’s _so_ good to see you.”

There are times when Zayn wonders if his mother actually likes Liam, or is she puts on a very convincing show so she’s able to keep tabs on her children and he’s fairly easy to retain on a leash. Given that the rewards for Liam’s servitude are bountiful and plenty, including thoughtless approval and a hefty amount of funds, but a diamond leash is still a leash.

The refreshing taste of clean air makes breathing easier for Zayn as he steps out onto the porch, brushing his fingers along the railing as he travels down the cascading of steps. Harry’s on the lawn, the epitome of calm with his sleeves rolled up and elbows on his knees. He’s sunken low in the grass, green blades that are in the limbo of being perfectly manicured and a tad unruly. The crisp lines of a dress shirt make Harry look silly to Zayn, still handsome but a bit insane. Not once has Zayn ever considered Harry to be the business type, clean cut and serious. Apart from today, Zayn’s never seen Harry in anything but stupid graphic tee-shirts and a beanie.

Some things do change.

“I don’t know what this town wants from me, Zayn.”

He looks at him, his nice clothes, pressed into sharp points and angles and lines, and the high perch of his hair that’s threatening to topple over into a mess of unruly curls that Zayn used to tug in taunt. His nails are ragged, like he’s bitten them as soon as they grow back, stopping just before his teeth reach the quick. When Zayn sits in the grass, not giving a shit if his pants get stained, Harry’s stiff, careful where he places his legs and his thighs and he flinches away from Zayn before he lets himself throw an arm over his shoulders.

“Can I be honest, Harry,” Zayn asks, words whisking away in the quiet wind swaying across a peaceful display of unmerciful homes. “Really, really honest?”

“Always,” is his answer, and Zayn tries not to pull away when Harry elopes their pinkies; not hands, not fingers, just one pinky.

“I don’t think you know what you want from yourself.”

/////

Zayn’s room isn’t as small as he thought it would be. In hindsight, now that he can see the flat in decent lighting and with a coherent brain, one not muddled by anger or sleep, it’s far too nice for him to ever afford. He revisits his previous idea that for Veronica to come up with the money for this place, she has to be doing some kind of immoral act. Zayn will accept no other explanation.

The room isn’t offset with a four-poster bed or anything of the sort—no, that’s Liam and V’s room, pretentious lot—but there’s a double bed set up on a frame and the walls aren’t too tacky. The framed fashion magazines and prints of Kate Moss tell Zayn that Eleanor is responsible for the décor. As do the striped pillows on the monochrome duvet. Zayn knows Liam would have gone with something a bit more childish, and Veronica’s tastes would involve Zayn sleeping under a quilt stitched with a pattern that stopped being fashionable circa 1976.

“Stop pretending to pack your things and come watch TV with us.”

Zayn drops the shirt that he’s admittedly folded a good three times, not that he’ll say that out loud, especially not to Eleanor. “Do you people enjoy sneaking up on me? Give a guy some warning. Make some noise. It’s creepy how all of you just pop up. I feel very unwelcome.”

Eleanor raises her bag of crisps, gesturing to the loudness of the crinkling. “Dude, I’ve been eating in the doorway for like, five minutes. I couldn’t have given you more warning if I walked around with bells around my neck.”

Someone yells something, but Zayn doesn’t hear what it was or who says it.

Eleanor huffs. “I said _bells,_ Liam! Not balls! My god, grow up!”

The irony of her saying this with a large print of Hello Kitty on her jumper and a mouth full of food is not lost on Zayn. He sighs, sitting on the bed, sighing even louder when Eleanor shakes her head at him and yanks him from his spot. She was right, he had been avoiding the living room, where Veronica was sitting with all of her questions and brattiness, and Liam was sitting with all of his smirks and… _Liam-ness._

“Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t come in here because I don’t want to?”

She shrugs, walking him down the hall and pushing him into a seat, falling beside him on the couch. Veronica and Liam are sharing a seat and making Zayn want to throw up the lining of his stomach. And from the looks of it, Eleanor feels the same.

“It did, but I didn’t really care.”

“Good to know.”

“For future reference.”

Nothing that Zayn finds enjoyable is on television. He knows that already, though. Another partial reason why he saw no apparent need to mosey on down to the living area. But Eleanor gets Zayn caught up in re-runs of reality broadcasting, and before he knows it, he’s yelling at the screen and stealing handfuls of Eleanor’s snacks while they discuss the stupidity of people who watch shows like this, as if they’re not part of the demographic themselves.

He has a good time of it.

Veronica is pouting, obviously not impressed with being something other than the center of everyone’s attention. Zayn doesn’t miss those episodes. She discreetly leaves the room and Zayn groans when Eleanor follows after her, because she’s evil and she takes the chips.

“I wonder what was up with her.” Liam speaks for the first time since he brought Zayn home, after silently dropping Harry off at the curb of his sister’s apartment complex. “She really is happy to have you here, you know.”

Zayn doesn’t think she is, knows that his sister loves him, and even if he jokes about it, Zayn would never actually cause her any harm. Physically. Okay, or emotionally. They’re genetically pitted against one another, it’s a twin thing. She loves Zayn, but she likes the spotlight, and Zayn likes her to stay out of his hair. It’s an age-old ritual they’ve been repeating for years.

There’s a frayed string that’s bounding the leather of the couch together, Zayn fingers it, pulls at it until Liam snaps at him to stop and Zayn remembers that he said something before. “She gets like that sometimes. I would ask why you’re not the one that went to tether her back together, but I know you kind of piss her off when it comes to things like that.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

The conversation ends there and Zayn is grateful, doesn’t know what he would say if Liam were to keep talking. Doesn’t know if he’s still supposed to be angry at him for what happened earlier in the bathroom, or if he’s supposed to chalk it up to another one of the stupid things Liam does that makes Zayn want to claw his eyes out.

Veronica comes back and she drapes herself in Liam’s lap, lips instantly attaching to his neck, the both of them getting lost in a tangle of limbs and tongues and fabric. Zayn really does think he’s going to be sick this time.

He hopes his sister doesn’t think she’s fooling anyone though, not him at least. Because he clearly sees Eleanor come into the room and he clearly sees Veronica make eye contact with her while her tongue is literally down Liam’s throat. She puts on a show, arching her back and moaning.

Does she know her brother is sitting right here? Zayn doesn’t think she cares.

What Zayn definitely doesn’t miss is how Eleanor changes, throwing on a dress that doesn’t cover much of what Zayn thinks she’s trying to give away. And he most certainly doesn’t miss the way Veronica’s eyes falter to slits when she comes barging through the door a few hours later, girl attached to her lips. One with long raven hair and legs that wrap securely around Eleanor’s waist as they create a trail of clothes and moans through the living room.

Liam hoots and hollers. Veronica begins her tirade of marks down her boyfriend’s skin.

And Zayn wonders just what the fuck he’s walked into.

/////

Veronica leaves for France the promised three days later and Zayn is able to take more steadying breaths with her and Eleanor out of the house. Begrudgingly, he can say that El was the most welcoming and when she packed up her things, he was surprised and saddened that he would no longer have anyone to watch bad soap operas with at night while she was busy pretending that it didn’t bother her to see his sister with Liam. Zayn doesn’t’ know if Liam is stupid or just doesn’t care about the obvious tension between his housemates, but Zayn actually doesn’t care, so he goes on with his life.

What little life he’s managed to develop in a day short of a week, that is.

Which mostly consists of shrugging into shirts that make him uncomfortable when Liam and Harry look at him for too long, eating Cheerio’s on the couch before he spends the day out looking for work, and trying to keep Liam from pummeling Harry’s smart-ass into the ground when he gets home from work.

Now is the perfect example.

“Get your feet off my fucking table.” Liam comes through the door and lets it slam shut behind him. He’s talking to Harry, just on this side of yelling and Harry regards him with a scoff and folds his legs. Still on the table. “If I have to come over there, I’m going to shove your stupid legs up your ass, right next to your head. Feet. Move ‘em, _now._ ”

Zayn been here for a good six days, five of those being work days, and thus he’s memorized the order of the house. Liam gets up way too early to be acceptable and bangs around, no sympathy for those who went to bed just before the sun came up, looking through ads in the paper. He makes sure to tell Zayn he’s leaving with a smile on his face, like he knows he’s disturbing Zayn’s REM cycle, because he fucking _is_ , and then he slams the front door shut and doesn’t lock it.

Never locks it. It’s his priority in life to make Zayn roll out of bed to slide the lock on the door so he won’t get a rag full of chloroform to the mouth while he’s dreaming of free cigarettes, a nice car, and a place to live that doesn’t involve Liam or his morning shenanigans.

And when Liam comes home, shirt and hands and face stained with grease, the first thing he does is head for the shower, not coming out until his skin is scrubbed freshly pink and a towel hangs around his waist. Apparently, he has no concern for the visual wellbeing of others.

Tonight, he heads for the refrigerator first, grabbing a beer and tensely speaking things at Harry, rather than to him. He’s cleaned up, not nearly as dirty. Zayn recalls overhearing Liam telling Veronica that he was working the office today. He doesn’t like it. Revels in the thought of Liam getting crushed underneath tons of scrap metal than he does imagining him picking up a telephone.

Plus, he looks cooler—more rugged and badass—when he’s elbow-deep in grime and dirt.

Whatever, Zayn’s being weird.

“My shoes are clean, Layne.” Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry’s obvious name change, not knowing if he’s _trying_ to make an ass out of himself or if it comes naturally. He guesses the latter. “I just got them this afternoon. They’ve only touched the pavement and this very nice carpet. Chill out, seriously.”

“I don’t care about your new shoes, asshole. If you wanna throw around money, go and buy your own coffee table.” Liam stops and thinks better of it. “Or better yet, your own apartment. This isn’t a boarding house. Only one delinquent at a time.”

Zayn resents being called a delinquent, but still stifles a laugh at Liam’s words and Harry’s annoyed reaction.

“I have a sister you can screw? Can I hang out here, then?”

Zayn takes a swig of the coke in his hand, nearly choking, and kicks Harry’s feet off the table, not eager to see the vein in Liam’s forehead get any more prominent. “Stop trying to piss him off. It’s not funny anymore, Haz.”

“Who said I’m trying to be funny? Gemma’s fit, you know. Just colored her hair and everything.”

“Please stop. My god, stop. Get up, let’s go.” Zayn doesn’t have time for this. He stands and passes Liam in the kitchen, ignoring the appreciative nod he gives Zayn on his way past him to the front door. In no way is Zayn doing this for him. “Come on, Harry, let’s get you home, yeah?”

“I’m watching this.” And now he’s just being difficult. Zayn doesn’t know what gets Harry off the couch, but in the end he’s standing in the doorway with Zayn and Liam is in the space he once took up. “You really want me to leave you? Alone? With him?”

“It’s not the most ideal situation, Harry, but I don’t really have another choice.”

He does, he has plenty of choices. Zayn could stay with his parents, up in London with Josh, out in France with his sister, or with Harry himself, but none of those ideas sound nearly as appealing as staying in this flat. Even if he has to put up with Liam—who’s rarely home and rarely speaking to Zayn anyway.

Suddenly Harry’s in his space, crowding him against the wall closest to the door. Zayn’s hands fall to his chest, pushing him away and purposely not looking up into the hurt eyes of his curly-headed mate.

“I guess I’ll go then.”

“Yeah—I think that would be best.”

Harry’s eyes are hopeful, bright and brown and saddening to Zayn’s uncaring attitude. “Did you want me to come over tomorrow? After you’ve looked for jobs and stuff?”

There’s finality to the conversation when Zayn says, “I’ll call you.”

Liam doesn’t make things any better by snorting, causing Harry’s hands to falter from touching Zayn’s face for a goodbye kiss to the cheek. Zayn thinks it might be better this way. He offers to wait outside with Harry until Gemma shows up, but Harry waves him off, shoulders stiff, and tells Zayn he’ll just take the short walk to the main road and catch a cab.

He walks away without a word after that and Zayn’s shoulders are lighter for knowing that Harry probably won’t be back any time soon.

Liam doesn’t say anything when Zayn returns to the living room, just turns the program about cars and tattoos and naked girls—Zayn thinks that’s the gist of it—up louder when Zayn opens his mouth to talk. To apologize. But if Liam wants to be an ass, Zayn can be one as well.

He stretches out on the couch, feet knocking into the hand holding Liam’s beer bottle. He doesn’t expect Liam to laugh, vibration shooting through Zayn’s foot where it’s connected to the thick muscle of Liam’s thigh. He takes off his jacket and wipes down the leather before turning his attention to the TV set without word to Zayn.

Zayn keeps his feet there and dozes off, eyes fluttering open and closed, mind going in and out of consciousness. He does register Liam getting up with grease under his nails and dirt around his chin and coming back smelling like the body wash Zayn sniffed in the shower earlier this week. Liam raises Zayn’s legs and sits beneath them, letting them fall back into his lap under the guise of sitting in his previous spot, even though there are two separate chairs he could be placing his bum in.

Zayn shrugs and burrows back into the cushions, sounds of engines and the light timbre of Liam’s laugh surrounding him.

When he wakes up in the morning, Liam is gone along with any evidence that he’d been there in the first place.

/////

Zayn doesn’t know a lot about many things, but one thing his gut tells him he should be certain of is that FaceTime is a feature created to destroy all of his free time. He’s up to his knees in various inked pages of newspaper. It’s unsurprising that employers aren’t eager to hire Zayn with the swirling of tattoos winding up his arm. The ones that do give him a chance politely reject him when they learn of the smudge on his criminal record. On top of remaining at the tail of the unemployment percentages, Veronica has insisted it was mandatory for Zayn to speak with her face to face as she sorted through the events of her first day at work.

“I felt like I was an intern but it was amazing. This other girl, total babe—I was so jealous—and she was doing fantastic, inserting input and all that. But when she went on an afternoon coffee run she totally spilled a latte down the front of the photographer’s pantsuit.” Veronica’s face tells all, eyebrows lifting in excitement. Zayn thinks it’s a shame that his sister wants to _run_ photo shoots instead of being _featured_ in them.

A curtain of her hair falls into view of the camera and it amuses Zayn how much they look alike in dark lighting. The tiny image of his face is strikingly similar, obviously, as they share a good amount of genetics. Still, Zayn has never seen his sister so happy and try as he may to imitate the glow of her cheeks, he fails. It’s then that he sees they appear so different, age equal but stages in life further apart than Zayn ever thought possible.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” and he’s genuine. Zayn sinks further back into the couch cushions, having abandoned his paper lined room in favor of a clear space, the white and brick attributes of the living room giving him a clearance of senses to calm his nerves. “You think you’ll stay there past the summer? Give up the freelance and work for the company long term?”

“I have a lot in Leeds, though.” She says it like she’s thought about it more than a few times. Zayn crosses his ankles and adjusts his phone in his hand while his sister bites into her bottom lip with indecision. “The shops pay really well for my direction. Mum and dad are there. You’re there now, too. Eleanor has a really good job.”

“Liam’s here.”

She responds too fast to not sound guilty. “Yeah, yeah,” she replies with a furious nod. “I was getting to him. We’re been together for, god. A long time, I guess. Never really thought about it.”

“You never really thought about your live-in boyfriend of five years? You’ve been ass over face for him since you were fourteen years old.” Zayn shudders. “I’m going to overlook the fact that he was eighteen when you hooked up with him because I know you fucked him over by telling him you were eighteen, too.”

It’s kind of screwed up that she laughs at that. “Did you see Liam when he was eighteen? He gets better with age, definitely, but he wasn’t so bad back then either. Same car, but a little more nice. He was a gentleman—”

Zayn snorts. “I don’t see Liam being a gentleman, ever.”

“Well he was,” she insists, tucking hair behind her ear. “I was in love with him.”

He doesn’t comment on her use of past-tense.

“Love makes you do crazy things, I guess.” Zayn talks to her, and she nods but he doesn’t think anything he says from this point will resonate with her.

“Yeah, I suppose it does.” Zayn hears a door open in the background and Eleanor’s voice echoes through the tinny speakers of his phone. “Hey, look. Eleanor’s here, I have to go. Tell Liam I love him, yeah? Love you, too.”

She hangs up before Zayn has a chance to tell her that if she really loved Liam, she would call him and tell him that herself.

/////

As much as Zayn hates working at a Creamery, serving frozen yogurt to overly-bronzed girls in small skirts, it beats the alternative of calling up his mum and asking her for money to buy take-out on nights when Liam and Zayn aren’t in the mood to cook. Or when Zayn uses up too much hot water and Zayn’s afraid to eat what Liam plates that night in fear of getting food poisoning. His mother calls him hysterical but she doesn’t know Liam like he does.

“I have some friends coming over tonight.”

Liam tells Zayn this like it’s any of his business. The both of them haven’t been getting along, but they haven’t been at one another’s throats; Zayn can admit that it’s a nice change. By no means does that mean Zayn expects to be invited to watch Liam and his pals make fools out of themselves while they play ridiculous games of beer pong and take shots whenever someone gets a call from their significant other.

“If that’s your way of telling me to get out of the apartment, then fuck off.” Zayn mutes the program and steadies his book in his lap. He’s in the shirt he’d been designated to work in, because it fit better than anything else he had in his closet since he hadn’t had a chance to hit the shops. “I live here, too. Don’t worry though. I’ll just go to my room if it bothers you that much.”

“I wasn’t—shit, you’re a pain in the ass, you know?” Liam picks up his dirty clothes that somehow found their way under the ottoman of the chair in the corner. Zayn raises a brow and a finger in the same instant before returning his eyes to his book. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to come out with us before we came back here to wind down. It is possible for me to be nice, or whatever.”

“No thank you,” Zayn answers without looking up. “And I didn’t say it wasn’t, but I highly doubt it.”

Liam sits on his precious coffee table and trains his eyes on Zayn for so long that it’s uncomfortable _not_ to look up and see what he wants.

“Can I help you?”

He nods and Zayn wants to laugh at the serious set of his jaw. The dent between his brow suggests he’s contemplating rather hard on what to say and that eventually does make Zayn giggle. Liam pinches the skin of his leg for it.

“I thought we were building something, kid.” He rubs Zayn’s legs, fingers tickling the hairs on his leg and he can guarantee Liam is doing it on purpose to ruffle Zayn’s proverbial feathers. “Veronica is going to kill me if I keep making her baby brother hate me. Let me buy you some drinks, maybe set you up with a girl? Please?” He stares at Zayn with those huge, dumb brown eyes and Zayn sags under the pressure of his gaze. Ah, fuck. “For Veronica?”

It pains Zayn not to tell Liam that there are so many other things he should be worrying about where Veronica is concerned; like how she’s in love with her best friend, a friend that is not Liam, but the girl she took to Paris, France with her. One of the most romantic cities in the fucking world.

But he can’t tell him that, because it’s none of his business. Liam is none of his business and neither is the wellbeing of his fading relationship with his sister.

So Zayn doesn’t know why he smiles at Liam and he certainly has no fucking clue why he says yes.

-

Liam’s friends aren’t as bad as Zayn thought they would be. They’re worse.

“Drinks all around! Liam’s paying, fellas!” Andy is too loud to exist on Planet Earth without disturbing others. His hair is long and he reminds Zayn of a blonde, douche-y Sam Winchester every time his hair floats behind him when he walks. Zayn looks on from a distance, disgust curling in his stomach when Andy takes a shot and pulls in a girl for a wet kiss before he’s finished swallowing. There’s liquid everywhere. “Let’s do this!”

A scattering of people that remind Zayn too much of his time in boarding school huddle around them, chomping at the bit to rub elbows with Liam to ensure their free drinks. Liam’s standing at the bar, Zayn standing very close to him—he never thought he would say this, but Liam is tame compared to these people and it’s freaking him the fuck out—with his hand low on Zayn’s back, slipping to his waist when Zayn’s jostled in everyone’s haste to get to the bar before Liam told them to fuck off and pay for their own drinks.

“You get used to them,” he promises, mouth too close to Zayn’s ear for him to allow himself to think straight. “Andy’s the worst one, I imagine. Louis’ just as loud but a bit more sophisticated, not that being more classy than Andy involves much effort.”

Zayn leans away from a stranger when they press a little too close to him in order to get the bartender’s attention. This leaves Zayn and Liam shoulder to shoulder, Liam slightly behind him with a solid grip to Zayn’s hip. “I didn’t think I would live to see the day where I encountered people who are far less mature than Liam Payne.”

Liam laughs and so does someone that saunters up to them. It’s not a walk, it’s a saunter. His hips sway in a feminine way and he’s got the tiniest little feet that Zayn has ever seen. If it weren’t for the beanie on his head, and the kohl under his eyes coupled with the ink dwindling down his arms, Zayn would call him adorable.

“I like this one, Payne.” He gives Zayn a once over, and when Zayn gets the impression he likes what he sees, he can’t help but feel a little pleased. Something tells him that this guy’s approval is what he should be seeking. He shrugs and waves his hands. “Not that I approve of you stepping out on Veronica. Your girlfriend, _Veronica._ You remember her? But he seems funny.” He pats Zayn’s shoulder invitingly. “Have you met Liam’s girlfriend, _practically fiancé_ , Veronica? She’s a doll. You’ll love her.”

Zayn doesn’t know if he’s trying to call Liam out on his shit because he’s a fan of Zayn’s sister, or he’s trying to persuade Zayn to make better choices as a quest for the night. He’s not sure which one he would prefer.

“I know her better than you think I might.”

Liam’s fingers wiggle at Zayn’s side and they share a smile, lips struggling to withhold laughter at the puzzled face of their new company. “Scandalous,” he declares mischievously.

Zayn thinks it’s cruel to continue on any longer, to Liam’s friend _and_ Zayn being that the tingle he gets up his spine every time Liam’s fingers dance along the sliver of skin at his hip is dangerous to his self-preservation. He’s nudged forward with his hand out to shake hands, with a grin of his own on his lips. “I’m Zayn, Veronica’s brother.”

A hand swipes at the guy’s forehead as he lets out an exaggerated breath and likewise extends his hand in greeting. “Whew, thank god. I was worried I’d have to fake enthusiasm at another one of the victims of Liam and Veronica’s bullshit ramifications of an open relationship. I’m Louis,” he says, letting go of Zayn’s hand and taking a seat in the stool at Zayn’s right. “And you’re a lot older than I thought you would be.”

“It’s the younger brother shit Veronica tries to sell.” Zayn detaches himself from Liam, mind stuck on the words _open relationship._ “We’re twins, she’s just mildly more successful than me. She’s a photographer’s assistant, I sell frozen yogurt. You spot the difference.”

“Indeed, I do.” He gestures for Zayn to wait a moment as his hand slaps down on the bar. “Troy, get us some drinks, will ya? I don’t tip you to stand around and look pretty, love!”

A girl materializes, one Zayn hadn’t had the chance to notice serving drinks over the raucous of Andy and a lad strangely named Maz yelling and chanting over drinks and girls. Troy, which can’t be her name because there’s no way she was graced with a fella’s name as a child. Zayn thinks she had to be stunning even as a kid, a baby even. She has a sharp jaw line and a sharper smile, with a dimple in her chin and hair falling in messy curls around the square shape of her face. Zayn doesn’t mean to stare, it just—sort of turns out that way.

“You don’t tip me anyhow, regardless of the quality of service you receive. And calling me Troy won’t get you drinks any faster than normal.” She eyes Louis with lifted brows and Zayn thinks this is the only person he’ll see Louis cower to, shoulders hunched and lips fixed in a graceful smirk. He knows he’s been had and that amuses Zayn. She spans the countertop with a clichéd sweep and rubs the wood with a rag while she sets her sights on Zayn. “Now what can I get you, handsome?”

If Zayn was attracted to girls, not to say he isn’t, just isn’t right now—Troy would be someone he’d take out to a witty dinner, full of conversation and quick subject changes before he drops her off at her door-step and she casually declines Zayn’s offer to come inside for a nightcap. The long, manicured nails of her long and skinny fingers distract Zayn until Liam nudges him and then he’s looking up into a warm and knowing smile.

“I—just a JD and coke will do the trick.”

“I’d like to know what else would do the trick.”

Liam warns her with a low voice. “Troian. Don’t start with him, he’s Ver—”

She waves him off and makes Zayn a drink at the same time. “Yeah, yeah. He’s Veronica’s brother, I know. I have eyes and ears, Liam. You’d have to be extremely challenged not to know that right away.”

Louis pouts and swirls his empty glass around in his hand, fingers gripping the top until Troian passes Zayn his drink and snatches the clear class from Louis hand, quickly filling it with the first bottle that touches her fingers. Zayn thinks that says a lot about both Louis and the woman tending bar in front of him.

“I didn’t know they were related right away, Troy.”

“I didn’t figure you would, honey.”

Zayn and Liam are scolded for laughing, sharp and slatted eyes from the fiery lad to their right. Troian laughs with them and takes a drink from a Whiskey bottle, not cringing once at the burn that must be rushing down her throat. Liam asks for a beer and the company around them continues to bicker. A hand finds its way to Zayn’s back again when Liam leans over him to grab a bottleneck from Troian’s fingertips.

Zayn doesn’t find a reason to remove the pressure from the tapering of his backside, so he doesn’t.

Louis shakes Zayn’s hand and wanders off, clinking his glass to Liam’s bottle on his way out, telling him to hurry along so they can meet at his place and crack a few bottles open. Liam tells him to go to his own fucking apartment. That he’s going to sleep as soon as he walks through his door. A far cry of what Zayn was promised the night would consist of, not that he minds or expects Liam to be anything but unreliable. 

His hand is securely sealed against the cotton of Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn still isn’t moving.

“Alex!”

Zayn is flustered by the amount of people that are thrust upon him in one night. When he agreed to go out for drinks with Liam’s friends, he didn’t think it would include greeting the patrons of an entire bar, bartender and doorman included—Paul was a lovely, man, considering it was his job to look fierce and intimidating.

So when another guy walks through the door and Troian and Liam are up in arms at his arrival, Zayn sighs and almost rests his head against Liam’s shoulder. Almost, but does not. Because that’s not okay. Instead he wiggles away from Liam and rests his head on the bar, allowing Troian to coo and prod at the strands of his hair. It only seems natural that she should caress his head after all the crude suggestions she’s made, only to laugh in Zayn’s face when he tries to be forward. She pats his cheek and gives him another drink.

He’s going to regret tonight, tomorrow morning.

“It’s nice of you to show up. I take it you heard about the free drinks?” Zayn can see Liam shake hands with someone from where he’s still slumped over the counter, he doesn’t lift his head to say hello. He’s feeling funny.

Liam’s hand is gone.

“Yeah, this man right here—” He stops and grabs someone, Zayn can hear it in the rustling of clothes and the added presence of another person. It has to be Andy, Zayn can _smell_ him, which is disgusting in its own right, but whatever. “He tweeted it for all of Leeds to see. I reckon people’ll start filing through the door in no time. Someone owes poor Paul an apology, if so.”

“You owe _me_ an apology if a bunch of losers come in here looking for free Spritzers.” Troian picks up where she left off, leaning her weight on the counter and fiddling her fingers in Zayn’s hair, nails at his scalp, relaxing him from an impending headache. “And don’t think I won’t collect like last time. I know where you live, Payne. Don’t play with my money.”

Her American drawl soothes Zayn in the mess of accents around him, including his own, excluding the fellow that just walked through the door a few minutes ago. There’s a lack of rough quality in his voice and the syllables that roll of his tongue sound like the American correspondents on Zayn’s radio at home—the flat.

“Well let’s have at it, then? And who’s this?” Zayn jumps when a hand that is not Liam’s scratches at his back, whimpering when his head contacts painfully with the table. “He’s a bit froggy, don’t you think? I’m not gonna hurt you, man. What’s your name?”

He doesn’t miss how Alex’s hand is removed, replaced suddenly with the stretch of a hand that’s becoming more familiar by the minute. Zayn rubs his forehead, wincing and glaring when Troian doesn’t bother to hide her laughter. When he turns around to speak, swiveling in his chair, Liam’s hand disappears. Zayn doesn’t pout, at all.

“I’m Zayn.”

“Alex, a real pleasure to meet you.”

His eyes flicker across the span of Zayn’s body, from his face, traveling over his lips and neck and torso. Zayn shifts uncomfortably, he’s not used to the attention. Alex has a nice face himself, and Zayn is starting to wonder if Liam only surrounds himself with pretty people, which doesn’t sound like that much of a stretch given the lack of depth concerning Liam’s personality.  

Zayn doesn’t know what to say after that, but it doesn’t hinder Alex, who lets Andy fall to the side and extends his hand to Zayn. “Would you like to dance, Zayn?”

It should be intimidating, Zayn doesn’t get asked out. He reads books and drinks wine in the comfort of his own bedroom. He wears glasses—contacts when he’s not at home, and his eyes still feel itchy after all this time. His clothes don’t fit right and he doesn’t have a place in this world. Alex is sly smiles and bearded jaws and he reminds Zayn so much of what he doesn’t know he wants, so what the hell. Yeah. Yeah, he’ll dance.

Only, he doesn’t voice it so enthusiastically. Zayn’s a recluse, not an idiot. Desperation tends to scare people away.

“Yeah, that might be cool.”

The light in Alex’s eyes tells Zayn he did a shit job of selling his curbed enthusiasm, but the small raise of his lips tells him it’ll be their little secret.

He doesn’t remember that Liam’s hand isn’t directly connected to his skin until the third song, where he and Alex are all flailing limbs and crazy hips, no sensuality involved whatsoever. Zayn doesn’t know how to feel when something inside Zayn tells him he misses Liam. It’s weird and it makes his stomach turn enough for Zayn to stumble back to the bar for another drink, one to wash the taste of missing _him_ from his throat.

When he gets there, Troian has a coke ready, refusing him anymore Whiskey, no matter how much he begs. He’s ready to go home, Alex’s number in his pocket with a promise to go out for lunch tomorrow. (“As friends, Zayn, stop looking at me like that. If I wanted you in my bed, you’d be there by now.”)

“I think it’s time for you to go home, doll. You’re shit-faced.” Troian wipes Zayn’s chin, giggling when he swipes at her dumb, multi-colored rag. “And you’re drooling on my counter. Get out.”

“Fine, where’s Liam?”

She doesn’t look him in the eye as she shoves enough money in his hand for a cab ride home. “Told me to give you this, said he’d leave the door unlocked.”

“What—I don’t—why?”

She pats his cheek for what feels like the millionth time tonight. “Kiddo, you’re in the biggest mess of your life.”

Zayn doesn’t want to know what that means, so he walks away, hailing a cab at the corner and giving them the address to the flat he shares with his sister’s boyfriend. Troy’s words are on his brain the entire walk to the door, vanishing only when he gets inside and turns the locks, walking towards the couch where Liam’s curled up around a book Zayn had been keeping under the coffee table.

Zayn lifts the blanket from under Liam’s legs and drapes it over his body.

He falls asleep with the tingle of Liam’s hand on his waist trickling down his spine.

A big mess, indeed.


	2. so, it seems that we fiend what we don't need.

/////

Zayn’s never wanted to pull the, “My parents are rich, I don’t have to work” card so bad in his life. Alas, he doesn’t, just keeps coming and going with various creamery stains on his slacks and a slight aversion to dairy for the foreseeable future.

“I got to touch Alvin’s camera today—oh, Liam. You know how picky photographers are about their cameras. I almost fell over right there.”

Zayn can hear Veronica’s voice, loud and annoyingly clear, meaning Liam’s hooked his laptop up to the television and he’s talking to Veronica for the first time in weeks. Zayn doesn’t say anything other than hello, immediately going to his room and changing, splashing water on his face to extinguish the smell of milk and cream and fucking yogurt form his senses.

“Tell my brother to get over here and say a proper hello, would you, Li?” But Zayn’s already padding into the living room and taking a seat next to Liam, shoving his feet under Liam’s legs because it’s a thing with them these days, coming home and crashing on the couch and Liam’s always really fucking _warm._ “Aw, look at the two of you getting along. El, babe, come look!”

“That’s my sweater,” Liam whispers while Veronica busies herself with capturing Eleanor’s attention.

Zayn looks down where his arms are crossed against his chest and sees that yeah, this is Liam’s jumper. He should have known by how he’s drowning in it, but he didn’t care to look. It was on the floor in the bathroom and it was comfortable.

“Well, I’m not taking it off, I’m cold.” Zayn feels petulant, wiggling his toes underneath Liam’s thigh and burrowing farther into the cotton of the sweater.

Zayn should not be as surprised as he is when Liam slaps his bare leg, a product of the athletic shorts he also nabbed from Liam’s collection of stupidly comfy clothing. He yelps and Liam joins Veronica and Eleanor for a laugh while Zayn tries admirably hard to vanquish Liam with the power of thought.

“You want a blanket, kid?”

Zayn’s given up entirely on scolding Liam for calling him a child time and time again; he’s obviously not going to stop and Zayn can’t actually punch him in the face without the repercussions of a broken fist because he has a feeling Liam’s jaw is just as strong as the rest of his body. And you can’t serve FroYo with a fucked up hand.

“That would be nice, which is why I don’t expect to get one from you.”

Veronica is rambling on about something but Zayn perfected the art of tuning her out a long time ago. For now, he’s lost in the staring match he and Liam are having. During which he untucks a throw from the cushions of the couch and lays it over Zayn and himself, keeping Zayn’s legs securely tucked close to Liam’s side. There’s a weird air to match the smile on Liam’s face, a smirk that tells Zayn to go fuck himself because Liam can be nice when he wants to be.

Its electricity that Zayn is actively ignoring, trying very hard to conjure up old feelings of hatred unsuccessfully. The feel of Liam’s hand finding Zayn’s ankle while the both of them try not to get lost in the gaze of the other, swimming in seas of brown eyes and tides of subtle pink smiles. The line of Liam’s thumb, going back and forth and back and forth, shoots Zayn up with a false sense of passion that starts in the pit of his stomach and ends on the tip of his tongue.

“Do you want me to stop?” And Liam’s gentle in his words, looks at Zayn with parting lips while his girlfriend sits on the other side of the screen, unaware of what’s going on in front of her eyes. It’s a poetic justice that makes the knot in his chest untighten just a little. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

It’s silly, they’re silly. One touch is what they’re talking about, one rub of Zayn’s exposed skin that shouldn’t be a big deal. But the part of Liam’s lips, open on a gasp, waiting for Zayn to tell him to back the fuck off so he can retreat into himself and leave Zayn out on the cold, wondering when they stopped hating each other and when Zayn stopped caring about Liam’s skin on his own. 

“Don’t.”

And he doesn’t, not for the rest of the night, long after Veronica has grown tired of them ignoring her and the re-runs of old sitcoms have run their course on late night television. He doesn’t stop until Zayn’s eyes drop shut, feet still safely under Liam’s thigh and ankle still being lit up by the small caress of Liam’s rough fingers.

Zayn doesn’t know what that means.

/////

Zayn offers Liam rent money, not a lot, and he apologizes for that. It’s hard trying to make a living off of such a shitty salary but he’s going to recognize his debts.

Liam tells Zayn to fuck off, that he can easily afford this place on his own and he doesn’t need money from Zayn. Tells him to keep it. But Zayn’s never been a good listener, blame his mother for speaking to him in long monologues when he was a child. So when Liam goes to sleep, Zayn wedges a roll of cash between the waistband of his boxers, because it amuses him.

When he gets up for work the next day, the money he’d given Liam is neatly folded on his bedside table, with the exception of a fiver that can be explained in the breakfast burrito waiting next to the stack of cash.

They don’t talk about it at all after that, but Zayn buys both of them breakfast in the mornings and Liam makes sure the lights don’t get turned off.

/////

With Harry only answering Zayn’s phone calls to tell him he’s busy, out with friends that Zayn knows he doesn’t have, he’s left with no choice but to highjack the friends Liam’s brought around. He has the day off and he’s bored, spent the better half of the morning lying around pretending it’s of his own choice and not because he’s a lonely sap with no new books to delve into.

“We’re going out, pumpkin.” Zayn had made the mistake of calling Troian on her day off, giving her the power to haul Zayn wherever she pleased. He’s drying his hair and slipping his glasses on his face, not wanting to be bothered with the irritation of his contacts. “Liam is bugging me about bringing them something to eat for lunch. Obviously that means we bring something horrible for them and fantastic for us.”

“How did you even get in here?” Zayn scratches the back of his head and reaches for a shirt on his way out of his bedroom. “I called you ten minutes ago. There’s no way you drove across town that quick.”

Troian looks him over, shaking her head at his ensemble and pulling him into the laundry room. “Don’t be silly, I have a key. Don’t tell Veronica, though. And god, not Eleanor either. Liam has a bad habit of locking himself out of the flat and I’m far more reliable than Louis. As for getting here, I have a fast car and a lead foot. Do the math, precious.” She slaps his arms until he lets her shrug him out of his tee-shirt and she’s looking over her choices hanging up over their dryer. She shoves a ball of fabric his way. “Here, put this on. It’s better than that monstrosity of a shirt you had on before.”

Zayn struggles to find the arm holes of this stupid fucking sweater she’s handed him, but eventually it’s on his body, down to his thighs and touching the back of his knees when it slips off his shoulders. “This isn’t mine.”

“I know, its Liam’s. Stop bitching and come on. You look cute.” She ruffles his hair and Zayn worries that he’s let her get too comfortable in his life entirely too fast. “The bed-head and glasses really mesh with the oversized sweater. Makes you look hobo-chic. And none of your other clothes fit either. Too tight is shoddier than too loose, remember that.”

Sometimes Troian talks rather fast and Zayn goes missing in between the lines of her words. Her wit is unparalleled and Zayn is grateful for the substitution of company when she’s not busting balls at the bar or spending time not buying things at the mall with the money she doesn’t have. Troian’s very vocal that being a bartender doesn’t pay as well as suggested in Coyote Ugly.

“I’m glad that I can pull off looking like a homeless person.”

Zayn isn’t affected when Troy rubs his cheek; she’s done it enough times. “You have the stubble for it, don’t ignore your calling.”

When Zayn is stuffed into pants nearly too tight for him to breathe correctly, Troian is shoving him out the door and locking it behind her—with her spare fucking key. Zayn makes a note to discuss this insanity with Liam when he gets home tonight. Someone with this much malice and drollness should not hold a key to anyone’s apartment, apart from her own. Especially not theirs. Zayn would like to open the door to her madness, not be surprisingly dragged out of bed by it.

Troian’s car never fails to make Zayn’s mouth fall open in amazement, the shiny red of the exterior appealing to his hidden taste for flashy things. She unlocks it and lets Zayn slide in on the buttery leather seats and wish for a job that pays for more than shelling out yogurt.

“I hope pasta sounds good to you.” Troian doesn’t wait for Zayn to buckle his seatbelt across his chest before she peals out of the parking lot. Zayn feels ridiculous in clothes that aren’t his. He scratches his scalp and tugs his knees up to his chest, ignoring Troian’s whimpering over the possible damage to her upholstery. “Alex hates Italian and Liam isn’t a fan of the mess Chicken Parmesan creates. Which means that’s probably what they’ll be getting. Let’s hope Olive Garden is still doing take-out for the afternoon.”

“What about Louis?”

“I happen to like Louis. He has a nice ass.”

-

Zayn’s never been to the auto shop where Liam works, has never seen a point or opportunity. And now that he’s here, food in hand and Troian on his arm, he knows that he’ll never return unless under gun point or something equally as severe. Not because of the dirt and grime coating the walls or the boisterous noise of Louis’ laughter coupled with the echoes of Top 40 on the speaker system. But the strain of muscles as Liam breathes and adjusts carburetors and transmissions and takes a drink out of his damn cup and—Zayn just doesn’t think it’s good for the integrity of the small friendship that’s developed between them.

He’ll be staying far, far away from here.

Liam waves at them from underneath a Honda, mouthing that he’ll be out in a minute between sips from the drink next to his head. Zayn laughs at the sight of Liam stretching to reach the end of the straw but shuts up when his obscene lips wrapped around said straw makes the hair on his arms stand up under the thick fabric of his sweater.

He follows Troy inside.

“Bless your sweet soul,” Louis cries, petting Troian’s hair and confiscating her from Zayn, dragging both of them to a small room that can’t possibly constitute a break area, no matter what the crooked sign on the door says. “We’re starving— well _I’m_ starving. I’ve had to answer the phone all day while Liam and Alex were busy tinkering under the hoods of cars.”

“How selfish of us,” Alex interjects, walking through the door, wiping his hands on a rag and taking a container from Zayn’s hands with a pat to his cheek. “I like your outfit, Zayn. Very hobo-chic.”

“That’s what I told him,” Troian says, taking a seat in Louis’ lap and making room for Alex to sit between her legs on the hard concrete of the floor. “He thinks he looks silly but what does he know about fashion, right?”

Zayn stands in the doorway, noodles in hand, uncertain where to have a seat. He watches the interaction of his newfound acquaintances, not sure if he’s been accepted with enough merit to call them his friends. Alex is smiling at Zayn around a mouthful of lasagna, cheese in his beard and a piece of Troian’s breadstick in his hair. Zayn supposes Troian has initiated enough physical contact to seal the bond of companionship. Louis is still a wild card with his loud mouth and flailing hands but Zayn knows he’s loyal to Liam, brings him home when he’s drunk every Saturday night, so he thinks he’s alright enough.

He misses Harry sometimes, wishes he wouldn’t have left the pieces of their friendship so broken, but parts of the puzzle have fallen where they may and Zayn doesn’t wish to stump himself over ways to put them both back together again. Zayn gets calls from Gemma on Sundays, rehashing the events of Harry’s week, informing him that he’s only been in town short of a month and she’s been forced to pick him up from the cold corners of a jail cell more times than she’d like to admit.

He’s running with the wrong people again, spotted out with Grimmy and a fellow named James enough times that it makes Zayn’s mother raise her nose whenever the subject of Harry is brought up over Monday night brunch. He’s yet to tell her that he himself isn’t doing any more prestigiously, no more marks on his criminal record, no, but still slumming with hipster girls and young moms out for a tasty treat on their afternoon runs.

“I like your shirt.”

Zayn does a shit job of pretending Liam didn’t scare the fear of a deity in him, not jumping but visibly tensing and nearly spilling the contents of his lunch onto the floor in front of him. Everyone sans for Zayn has a laugh.

“You’re a dick,” he iterates through clenched teeth, choking on a large piece of grilled chicken when Liam lifts his shirt to wipe a disgusting mixture of sweat and grease from his brow without reason. There is a stack of perfectly functional napkins on the table. “And this is a sweater, moron. And put your shirt down, Christ.”

When Liam asks, “Like what you see?” Zayn doesn’t dignify that with a voiced response.

“I’m trying to eat, keep the theatrics to yourself.” Zayn’s taken across the room and seated into a chair adjacent to Liam’s, relaxing his legs and purposely avoiding Liam and the line of his smirk and his arms and his stupid veined neck—he just ignores him altogether. “Troian said Chicken Parmesan was your least favorite, obviously that was my first choice to feed you with, but you’ll have to settle for Chicken Alfredo instead. I’m sure you’ll hate it just as much.”

“Aw, honey, you know just what to say to get me going.”

Zayn gives him the finger and wipes his mouth on the back of Liam’s sweater with malice several bites later.

They don’t eat in silence as much as Zayn would like, not with the shenanigans of Alex trying to escape from the extended reach of Louis’ clutches, to preserve his lasagna. Liam and Troian giggle and holler across the room at each other, making Zayn uncomfortable purely because he doesn’t know what to make of Liam making lewd gestures to anyone outside of him and Veronica.

Zayn audibly gulps when Liam hooks his ankle around Zayn’s, the same ankle he’d let his fingertips wander over without regard to the intense pattering of Zayn’s heart within the cavity of his chest.

Troian tells Zayn to get a move on when she checks her watch for the fourth time, prying him away from what’s left of his lunch and the soft scratch of Liam’s legs twined with his underneath the table.

“Those glasses look good on you,” Liam says, giving both Troy and Zayn a hug in thanks for feeding him, slipping bills into Zayn’s hand to cover his share. “You should wear them more often.”

“I, uh—thanks.”

Zayn doesn’t blush and he definitely doesn’t hide his glasses in the farthest part of his closet, intent on never wearing them again because the look that Liam gives Zayn makes something inside his stomach do flips.

He does not.

/////

Zayn isn’t one for video games, but he’s a great observer. There’s a new book on his lap, one he found on the corner of his bed when he woke up with no clue who to thank. He doesn’t think Liam would be that thoughtful, nor would he have a reason to purchase Zayn a copy of Don Winslow’s prequel to Savages. Zayn scoffs at the idea that Liam should even know who Don Winslow _is_ and turns the page, eyeing the screen portraying a horrible rendition of a zombie apocalypse for a second and immediately deferring his sight to the words he was caught in before.

“You can’t shoot me, Louis, _I’m on your team._ ” Liam’s not amused, pressing buttons furiously if Zayn’s hearing is right. “It’s a team effort, you donut.”

“I obviously can because I just did.”

Zayn snorts and he can feel the glare Liam is giving him from across the room. He doesn’t look up to confirm it.

“Fine, when you need cover, remember that you shot me in the back four fucking times,” he huffs, throwing his controller down and stomping into the kitchen. “Does anyone want something? And by anyone I mean someone who isn’t a traitorous bastard.”

“I’ll take a tea, Liam,” Louis answers, apparently missing the part where traitorous bastards aren’t supposed to comment. “Don’t be so bitter, love. It doesn’t fit your character. You don’t have the eyes to hold a grudge. Too soft, mate.”

Zayn looks over the back of the couch and begs to differ, the glare emitting from Liam’s soft eyes has very good grudge-holding potential in his opinion. “Get me a water, would you? All this marital bickering has me quenched.”

“Sure thing.”

Zayn’s coming to learn that when Louis rolls his eyes, or makes a sarcastic gesture in general, there’s a prominent sting in the air that transmits its presence. Meaning Zayn feels him scoff before he hears it. “Don’t preach to me about nuptial spatting while you’re donning the same sweater I’ve seen you in every night I’ve been over here—”

“Which has been three nights in a row, get a fucking hobby,” Zayn spits.

“And I happen to know that’s _Liam’s_. So hush up and put your nose back in that book, boo. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Neither Zayn nor Liam makes haste to defend Louis’ statements. But Liam does sit next to Zayn on the couch, lets him huddle near him and tuck his cold feet under Liam’s thighs. Even finds his ankle with long fingers, wrapping his hand around the bone and squeezing, raising higher and higher until his nails are scratching the sensitive skin at the back of Zayn’s knees.

Louis does kill every zombie on the screen, confirms it with a shout that jolts Zayn in his seat, Liam’s hand a steadying hold on his inner thigh, stopping him from tumbling over the seat of the couch. And Zayn never gets to finish his book because he falls asleep with Liam’s hands floating around in his dreams, gripping a part of him that Zayn wasn’t aware needed holding. Flashes of smooth, tanned skin haunt him and he wakes up in a sweat, panting a name he’d sworn to hate not even six weeks ago.

Liam’s gone when he wakes up and there’s breakfast on the kitchen counter.

They’re beginning to make a habit of not talking about things. 

/////

“Do you miss me?”

Veronica’s face is on Zayn’s phone once again, taking up the screen with a cap of himself in the corner. He’s not nearly as overdramatic as Liam, refuses to enlarge her face to preposterous proportions solely to speak with her for a few minutes. He’s scratching at his stomach and yawning, covering his mouth and nearly dropping his phone into the abyss of covers around him.

“Considering I haven’t lived in the same town as you for four years, and this isn’t any different, not any more so than usual.” Veronica snorts and Zayn can hear Eleanor do the same in the background. “Plus, you were cranky when you were here. The house is much more calm without you two creating lover’s quarrels over absolutely nothing.”

“Liam and I never argue.”

“I wasn’t talking about you and Liam.”

Eleanor snorts again.

Veronica pretends to be unphased but Zayn knows he caught her off guard, red-handed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Me and Eleanor—”

“Didn’t say I was talking about El, either,” he says, just to be a dick.

“I hate you,” she says with a sigh, no denial forthcoming. “What’s Liam up to these days?”

It’s the first time she’s asked about Liam in a week, and he knows that they’ve only talked twice during that time, their schedules out of sync. He shrugs, like he doesn’t know, and the question makes him fidget for reasons that he’s not willing to discuss. “Working, mostly. We spend a lot of the time at the bar or at Troian’s. Alex is staying there and Louis’ not really staying anywhere permanent because his roommate is a punk. Liam’s doing okay, though. He misses you,” he adds, just to end things, smooth over the ending of his answer and quell Veronica’s jealous streak.

Obviously it doesn’t work.

“I doubt he thinks about me much if he’s hanging around with Troian again.” She says it bitterly, and the _again_ piques an interest in Zayn that he’s not quite comfortable with.

But her irrationality, the way she flips her hair like she does when she’s feeling superior and the roll of her eyes, it makes him _angry._ Because he knows something is happening on the other end of this phone that he’s not been told, that she’s keeping hidden thousands of miles away. And Troian is a nice girl, has been nothing but kind to Zayn and Liam and anyone she’s around because she’s a good fucking person. For V to be annoyed by Liam spending time with someone else, someone his sister thinks he might hold interest in, it’s a bit hypocritical.

He sneers at her and sees her disdain in high-definition. “Because you’re missing him so much up there, right? It’s not like everybody doesn’t know you’re fucking Eleanor. Come off it, V.”

“I’m not fucking _anyone,_ ” she’s quick to defend, like she’s practiced this answer a million times in the mirror and this is the first time she’s had to execute it. She does a shit job. Veronica sits up straighter and Zayn sees Eleanor do the same in back of her. “Eleanor is my friend and nothing else. That’s really bitchy of you to say, Zayn.”

“I’m just a friend now, huh?”

Zayn grits his teeth. That’s not a can of worms he wants to be near when it’s torn open. “You keep telling yourself that, V. But don’t get mad if Liam’s wandering—which he isn’t—when you traipsed off to a different country to screw around on him behind his back.”

“Fuck you.” And she’s dropping her phone, taking off after Eleanor he suspects. “ _El, come back_.”

Zayn hangs up the call, not wanting to hear anything that should happen after that.

He goes to sleep that night, on the couch with Liam’s hand on his thigh, a step up from his ankle because they’re friends, and that’s it. Zayn wonders if he had an ulterior motive to his actions earlier.

He brushes that thought away and moves closer to Liam.

They’re just friends.

/////

Troian’s couch isn’t as deep or as long as Liam’s, but it’s twice as comfortable. There’s no leather that sticks to Zayn’s sweat-slick skin, only suede that he slips down occasionally due to the soft denim of his jeans. He’s slouched across it, not caring if he’s taking up too much space, only moves when Alex beckons him to the kitchen to take a shot or Troy comes over to introduce him to one of her friends. Several of which Zayn has to profusely decline dancing invitations because he’s not keen on the idea of moving from his spot any time soon.

“You’re being a party pooper,” Liam says, running his hand across the back of the couch and catching his fingernails on the back of Zayn’s scalp because he knows it annoys him. “Get up and socialize. Troian’s friends aren’t that bad. This isn’t a high-school rager, it’s a house party with a couple of people. I’ll come with you if you want.”

Zayn scoffs at the implication that he needs Liam to babysit him. “I worked all day long; I’m fucking tired and I want to go home and read a book, leave me alone.”

Zayn turns his head in the other direction when Liam leans over the back of the couch on his elbows. He doesn’t need a visual reminder that Liam spends all his time in the gym, then in the shops finding every sleeveless top that will irritate Zayn to no end. Liam grabs his chin and angles him in the direction he just looked away from. “I like when you call my house your home.”

Zayn jerks away too slowly, lets Liam look at him with obvious mischief in his eyes. He’s caught on to Zayn, seen him staring for a beat too long and touching him a hint too gentle. He’s playing with him and Zayn doesn’t appreciate it. Hates it. “I like it when you shut up. Even more so when you’re being quiet on the other side of the room.”

“I think we both know that isn’t true.”

He’s breathing down Zayn’s neck, words clinging to his skin and fingers tickling his hairline. He’s trying to coerce Zayn into giving him a reaction, stomping away mad or leaning too far back into his breath. But Zayn isn’t that stupid or that wasted. “You’re drunk, Liam.”

“Am not,” he says, lip reaching Zayn’s skin with the pout his mouth forms. “Come dance with us, me and Troy.”

“There isn’t enough alcohol in this room to make me do that. A _hundred_ bottles of alcohol couldn’t make me do that.”

He laughs and Zayn can feel it run through his body and he’s _squirming,_ moving back into the seat instead of forward and he hates that Liam’s won but—but nothing. “So there’s a number? What about a hundred and one?” His dumb hands move down to Zayn’s shoulders, gripping them and squeezing harder than should be allowed. Zayn doesn’t know why he thinks it’s so fucking hot that Liam doesn’t know his own strength sometimes. “What would you do for a hundred and two bottles?”

“Fuck—”

“Stop trying to defile that poor boy and go get Louis out of my shower.” Troian is there, saving Zayn from finishing whatever stupid sentence he can get off his lips. He wants to kiss her, but he stays still, afraid to move. Afraid Liam will pounce if he does. “He’s been in there for ten minutes. He’s trying to swim, swears to the moon he’s a mermaid. Not a merman, _a mermaid._ He’s you best friend, you get to do the honors.”

Liam might be protesting but Zayn can’t hear him, closes his eyes and ears to anything concerning _him_ and dreams about words on pages that he can get lost in. Thoreau and Eyre, tries to mutter phrases and sentences he’s spent hours ingraining in his brain. He only flutters his eyelids open when he can’t feel Liam’s presence. And when he does Troian is winking at him and mouthing how much he owes her.

He’d give her the world if his salary would allow it.

/////

“I’m sorry for the other night,” Liam speaks into his voicemail after the third day Zayn’s spent at his mum’s. “Please come home—to my place. I miss, _no_ —Veronica will kill me if she finds out you’re sleeping at home.” Zayn can hear him fidget, hears the slick sound of him licking his lips; Zayn does not smile at that. “Your mum is kind of a bitch, so. So I figure you’d rather put up with me farting and making you do my laundry than hearing about how much she wants you to be—be something you’re not.”

He goes on for some time, so much so that he has to call back again, leaving another message while Zayn sits in the break room and waits for him to finish recording it. Zayn can hear the sheepishness and he does smile then, grins from ear to ear because he never thought he’d attach the word adorable to any adjectives describing Liam. 

“Come back home, please? America’s Next Top Model just isn’t the same without you.”

Zayn goes to Liam’s apartment, waltzes in like he never left and takes his rightful place on the couch, feet finding their way under Liam’s body and hands reaching for the cup of tea on Liam’s side table. He doesn’t bitch when Zayn takes a drink, never does. Just puts his hand high up on Zayn’s thigh and lets him fall asleep with his head on Liam’s shoulder.

He’s there when Zayn wakes up in the morning.

/////

“Zayn? Is that you?”

“I don’t know who else it could be, Liam. Besides the other two million people you’ve given a key to this apartment.” Zayn shrugs off his jacket, pushes it off his shoulders and forgoes picking it up when it slips off the hook of Eleanor’s outrageously old coat rack. (“It’s vintage, Zayn. Have some taste.”) “But alas, it is me. What do you want?”

“Do you think this girl looks like your sister?”

But that’s not Liam’s voice, no that’s Harry’s—the same Harry who has been conveniently missing Zayn’s calls for two weeks now, not even bothering to pick up and mumble out an excuse.

“You can’t ask him that, dude! Not cool!” And that’s Alex.

“Don’t call me dude, _dude._ ” Zayn hears Harry say. “Your American-isms are creeping me out. What even is a dude?”

Zayn contemplates standing in the makeshift foyer—a small wall between the door and the living room—and bashing his head against the accent table until his brains fall out of his skull. Liam, Harry, and Alex are a trio Zayn doesn’t ever want to deal with, namely not after a double shift of scooping flavored dairies into assorted cones.

“Zayn hurry up, I don’t want to have to pause it.”

So he hurries up, as fast as his dwindling pride will allow him to move his feet, and he regrets it as soon as he carries his gaze to the television. And yeah, the girl on the screen could be a double for his sister, has the bone structure and the long, dark hair. But she’s naked, head to toe, nothing covering her except the other girl on top of her, who is also naked and _what the fuck?_

“Are you watching porn,” he demands, hands flying because this is _so_ weird and _so_ not what he needs right now. “Yes,” he confirms for himself with another glance at the TV. “You’re watching porn, _together,_ and you’re asking me if I can see the resemblance between a porn star and my twin sister. I—what— _how?_ What is _wrong_ with you?”

“It was just a question,” Liam says, and of course it’s fucking Liam with his smart mouth and sharp smirks. “Don’t have to get all haughty about it.”

“Yeah, Zayn. Don’t get _haughty._ ” Harry smiles as he says it, thrilled at knowing the meaning of a word longer than _Instagram_. “Haughty,” he repeats. And Zayn watches him test it out on his tongue like a fucking tool. “Nice word choice, Liam.”

“Thanks, mate.”

He’s really proud of Liam and Harry for knowing what the word haughty means, is ecstatic for the impending lack of intelligence Zayn thought upon them to be lifted. But this isn’t funny, not in the slightest, so he’s not amused.

“You two don’t even like each other!”

This seems to be news to them, as to say they haven’t attempted to rip each other’s throats out with passive-aggressive glares and secret hand gestures when the other turned their back. Liam was big on giving the bird. Seeing them both shrug and look at one another, taking a drink of their beers before Liam turns up the volume and comments to Alex that the girl on screen fucks better than— _nope._ Not listening.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, putting up a hand to block any further flashes of pink and golden skin on the television, removing all links of pornography from his sister. “If you need me to verify any more disturbing clarifications about my sister—my own flesh and blood, mind you—I’ll be in my room.”

“Oh shit, about that. Zayn, hold on.”

_Oh shit_ can never be good, not coming from Liam’s mouth. Liam, who Zayn thought he had come to like, more than tolerate, in this last month and fuck, does he have to look at Zayn like that? Does every muscle in his body have to move in order for him to lift his body from the couch? Is it necessary for his shirt to be that loose? Zayn would appreciate a little more snugness in the abdomen area, a space that doesn’t get nearly enough praise or attention—stop it, brain.

“If you’ve defiled any part of my room—”

Liam pushes Zayn farther down the hall, out of sight from their guests. He sighs and holds the top of Zayn’s arms, forcing him to look in his direction when all Zayn wants to do is crash right into the hollow of Liam’s throat— _his pillow._ All he wants to crash into is his pillow. “I sort of gave your room away. Temporarily,” he rushes to say, the likelihood of Zayn finding that any better very slim. “Harry’s going through some things, needed a place to stay. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

A million things don’t go through his mind, but it’s a close call. The reminder of Gemma calling Zayn to tell him how shitty Harry’s been behaving, running around town like he used to when they were kids; young and stupid and with people he had no business knowing.

And if it were Zayn, he would have turned Harry away without the blink of an eye because there’s no debt there. Zayn doesn’t owe Harry a thing, not even the forced friendship that lingers between their lost souls. Harry’s a lost cause with his only hope lying somewhere inside that thick skull of his. Zayn stopped trying to save Harry the moment he lit that match, hopelessness increasing when Harry would rather drag his best mate’s name through the dirt than be punished alone.

Zayn starts to say, “He’s going to take advantage of you,” and settles for a question instead. A lot less controversy should he be overheard.

“Why didn’t you give him Eleanor’s room?”

“Because I value my life,” Liam answers, letting go of Zayn’s arms but still holding him with the lock of his gaze. “I didn’t think you would mind bunking with me for a few nights—”

That’s a bad idea. A very bad idea that Zayn isn’t opposed to, which in turn makes it worse, eleven times worse because sometimes ten just isn’t enough. The thought of Liam next to him, miles of skin within a fingertip’s length, makes him swallow a bit harder. And face it; Zayn doesn’t have enough control to quell what’s brewing inside him whenever he sees Liam. Feels him on and around him, his stupid hands cradling each responsive part of Zayn’s legs and thighs and sometimes his hips. His back, even. And his smell, the way Zayn can lean into Liam when climbs on the couch after a run and dip his nose into Liam’s collar. Smell the heat and exhaustion and sweat, things Zayn would like to observe in different contexts and—he should say no.

“I wouldn’t.” Just because he should doesn’t mean he’s going to. “I just think this ploy of yours to get me into bed has gone a bit far. Harry’s a lot to handle. He snores.”

Liam laughs with him, their smiles mirroring and Zayn’s scared, feels his heart race against his chest because he’s never felt this happy. And that sends shocks of terror down his body. Not helped by the hands Liam puts on him, safe on his hips, platonic if anyone were to walk by. It feels anything but.

“If I was trying to get you in my bed,” he drawls. Liam’s the type to do ridiculous things like drawl his words out, say them into Zayn’s neck with a curved smile pressed into his skin. Skin that wasn’t nervously sweat-slick a minute ago. “You would have been there a long time ago. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have.”

“This is you not trying?” he squeaks, because it seems appropriate.

“Just wait until I am.”

And he’s gone with a wink and stupid gun-shooting hand gesture that he had to get from Alex who initially got it from stupid America.

Zayn grabs the important things from his room—boxers, pants, and a good book—and finds places for them in Liam’s room.

He turns down two pictures while he’s there, both of them containing the smiling face of his sister. And he doesn’t feel bad at all, not like he should. Because she’s off loving someone else and Liam is here, with Zayn and they aren’t doing anything wrong.

Not yet.

Not ever.

At all.

Yet.

-

“Go change.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Liam pouts and it’s not attractive—it isn’t, dammit. Then he’s looking at Harry, who’s eyeing Zayn in his tee-shirt and boxers, letting his eyes linger every time he’s temporarily distracted from the sitcom on TV. Zayn self-consciously tries to cover his legs with his arms, moves even closer to Liam and giggles when his toes move under his bum. Oops.

“Where’s my sweater?” When Zayn looks over at him, his eyes are hard, no longer kidding and light. His usual teasing grip around Zayn’s ankle turns painful. “The one you wear to bed, where is it?”

“He wears your jumper to bed?”

“It’s dirty,” he lies, knowing he sounds like a petulant child who’s being scolded, trying feebly to get out of it. Even though the hold Liam has on Zayn hurts so good. “Fucking chill out. It’s one night; I’m not going to die from the cold.”

Maybe Zayn didn’t want to wear the dumb thing, did he ever think of that? They have company, the flat isn’t theirs tonight, won’t be for a while—Harry is _so_ going to stay longer than a few days—and that’s Liam’s fault. He tainted this part of their night, where Zayn gets closer to him that he is now, lets Liam tell him things that Zayn doesn’t give a shit about and they argue over which way Tyra Banks’ should wear her hair. Three’s a crowd, one that Zayn isn’t up for letting into the loop because he knows Harry will see right through him and the façade he’s creating to lull Liam into a well-crafted rouse.

“Go put it—”

“Let it go, Liam.”

“I said go put it on,” he says again, whispering this time, scooting Zayn closer with a firm tug to his calf, hand wrapping around the muscle. And now they’re actively ignoring Harry, who’s asking more questions, ones that shouldn’t be forming on his lips. Never would be if Liam learned how to say no. “Put one of them on. I have a closet full of them.”

“And I said go fuck—”

Liam’s right next to him now, clearly not amused at the witty tongue of his roommate. “If I have to take you to the bathroom and strip you out of that goddamn shirt just to get you in what I told you to put on, I will.” Zayn’s mouth falls open, gasp slipping from his lips and thighs rubbing together. “Things don’t change because he’s here.”

“Fuck you,” Zayn whispers back, ripping himself away from Liam’s hands and mouth and arms and jaw and— _fuck._

He puts on the damn sweater but he isn’t happy about it.

Zayn sleeps on the couch, but Liam’s still smiling in the morning.

He’s still not sure what to think about anything that’s happening.

Only sure that he likes it.

/////

With Harry actively occupying Zayn’s space for over forty-eight hours, he needs a drink. A glass of something stronger than the wine Liam keeps on the top shelf of the liquor cabinet. Troian volunteers to tag along, mumbling something about wanting to take a shot somewhere she didn’t have to worry about tending the bar. Apparently her boss didn’t adhere to her regular inventory drinks. Not that Zayn blamed him.

“Do we really have to bring the cavalry along,” she says, not as quietly as Zayn would have liked her to speak. Harry and Alex make noises of displeasure in the backseat. “Or if we have to bring the scraps along, couldn’t we have gotten the other two? I like looking at Liam’s face a lot more than I do Harry’s.”

“Hey! I have a nice face, you know.”

“Your smart-ass mouth is attached to your face, along with the same eyes you tried using the other night to get a free round at my bar. Excuse me if Liam’s sweet and innocent cheeks win me over, Severus.”

“I don’t know about sweet and innocent,” he mumbles. Harry looks right at Zayn via the rearview mirror and he refuses to accept any meaning that might have. “Plus, Snape was a good guy at heart, so there.”

“I didn’t say you were a bad person, just that you were a dick.”

Alex leans forward to tickle the back of Zayn’s neck around his headrest, and Zayn sighs into it, tuning out whatever salvageable conversation is taking place between Harry and Troian. “You really should just ditch the FroYo gig and come help Louis work the front desk at the shop.”

His fingers dig into the sore muscles of Zayn’s shoulders, twisting and grasping in hard but effective measures while Zayn tries not to melt into a puddle in Troian’s exceedingly nice leather seat. “Me working with Louis makes me hurt even more.”

Alex laughs, and there’s no way he has his seatbelt on, but Zayn looks out of the corner of his eye at Troian, who’s still going on about nothing with Harold and he doesn’t think she’ll notice. “He’s a little loud, yeah.”

“A little?”

“But he’s a good guy. Would you believe that he and Eleanor get along, like, really well? He’s the laziest fucker I’ve ever seen answer a telephone. He once went an entire twenty minutes with a caller, and she didn’t even know who she was talking to. Thought she called her mum’s house and one of her cousins answered. But worships the ground Liam walks on, so you guys will have that in common.”

“Yeah—what,” he jerks away, disgruntled when Alex sighs and pulls him back into his seat. “I don’t worship anything concerning Liam.”

“Except his big, huge—”

“Harry!”

“I was going to say house. His big, huge house. Seriously, he must be making a killing to afford that flat. I may just move in with you guys permanently. I’m sure you don’t mind sharing a room with Liam.”

Troian runs a traffic light, almost veers off the road. Zayn doubts he’ll let Harry hang out with them regularly, much less be a permanent part of their life if he drops bombshells that almost get all of them killed. Bombshells that are none of his business because Zayn sleeps on the _very edge_ of the bed—so fucking what if he wakes up wrapped around Liam, he can’t help what he does in his sleep—so Harry can screw off.

“You sleep in the same bed as Liam?” Alex presses harder into Zayn’s shoulders, thumbs almost lulling him to sleep, would be if Troian wasn’t shaking him and Harry wasn’t inserting his personal business to the world. “Are you crazy? That spells disaster.”

“It spells, _that’s your sister’s boyfriend, are you mental?_ ”

Troian parks and snorts, Zayn isn’t sure which comes first. “Yeah, I’m sure Veronica will be real broken up about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zayn doesn’t say it with a hint of malice, because he isn’t angry at Troy’s apparent disapproval of his sister. He still hasn’t talked to Veronica since the day she silently confirmed she was with Eleanor despite his previous suspicions and now affirmations. “You don’t think she’d be mad? There’s nothing for her to be mad about,” he’s quick and cautious to say, not exactly lying. “I haven’t done anything wrong. But if I were—” he ignores the excited claps that come from the backseat and the widespread grin on Troy’s face. “If we were to uh, do anything. You don’t think she would be mad?”

Speak of the devil—Liam and Louis pull in beside Troian’s car. She looks at Zayn for a long minute, gathering her thoughts and chewing on her lip. That intense look, the one that initially drew him to her, that and her sharp tongue and large smile, it comes over her face and she’s unlocking her car door.

“Get out,” she snaps, motioning to Harry and Alex who are literally on the edge of their seat waiting for Troian’s answer. “Don’t be dim, I said get out of my car. And if anything discussed in here leaks, I’ll hunt you down and take away the special parts that make you boys. Now, get out.”

They scramble and Troian and Zayn are both amused to see Harry fumble with a salute on his way out of the backseat. They join Louis and Liam. But Liam stays behind and Zayn swears up and down that he _knows_ , that he can hear through the windshield—see though Zayn. He looks good tonight, he always looks good. Zayn’s in trouble, really has managed to stick his foot in it this time. Liam’s smile does something to him, same as it always has, makes him churn uncomfortably. Only now it’s not filled with disgust and contempt but fire and a tension that Zayn wants to cut through with bruised lips and searching hands.

He’s definitely in trouble.

“That’s a good man.” Zayn’s brought out of his thoughts, eyes still on Liam but not daring to look right at him. Doesn’t want to struggle to stay above water in the flood of emotions that comes with diving into Liam’s eyes. Troy snaps at him, makes Zayn look at her. “He’s a good man that fell for a girl who did nothing but lie to him from the beginning. She was in love, she wanted him. Whatever. She was fourteen, Zayn. She stole his youth, is _still_ stealing it while he flaunts her relationship around France with her best friend while he’s sitting here. And you’re feeling guilty because you think there’s still something there.”

“She’s my sister,” he says. It’s easier to speak, to present a problem where there are none. Because he’s supposed to hate Liam. “And they were in love once. I know they were.”

Troian pats his knee and kisses his cheek. It’s warm and sisterly and what Zayn thinks he really needs right now. “Honey, no one has loved that man for a really long time.”

Zayn didn’t say anything about love, no. This is purely sexual. Liam makes Zayn feel alive, sets his skin aflame. Makes his heart pump faster. Makes his lips heavy. Seduces his fingers to find his cock when Zayn’s in the shower, hand curling around the erection he woke up with, Liam’s name spilling from his wet lips. Forces tingles down Zayn’s spine because just the thought of being with him is that good. He’s what Zayn would never, ever want and everything he needs at the same time. His own personal walking contradiction.

Troian unlocks he door and hollers at Liam, tells him to mind his own business but pushes Zayn out of the passenger seat anyway.

Troian holds Liam’s hand and drags him across the parking lot.

Liam grabs Zayn’s hand.

And he doesn’t let go.

Zayn doesn’t ask him to.

/////

“It’s cold as balls in here,” Louis announces, sprawling on the couch, making himself at home in Liam’s apartment.

And he looks so comfortable, so glad to have a place to rest his head without worrying that he’ll be thrown out in the middle of the night. Or woken up to loud music and even louder guests. His roommate really is a prick. Zayn doesn’t have the heart to tell him that balls aren’t actually cold.

“Yes, Louis, you may have the couch,” Liam deadpans, seating himself on the large chair to the right of his prized, white leather sofa. “I didn’t want to sit on the couch in my own house, that would be silly. And if you’re cold, get a blanket. Zayn will kill all of us if we mess with the thermostat.”

Zayn won’t deny this, because he will slaughter the entire household if it’s above sixty degrees at any given time in this apartment. He sits down in the only other chair available and watches Harry plop very close to Louis’ head, not caring that he’s in serious danger of falling victim to Tomlinson’s wrath. Harry shovels—actually shovels, scoops his hand into the bag and everything—a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Zayn gives him points for only wincing slightly when Louis stabs him with a fork Zayn told Liam to pick up off the floor.

Once Louis’ done exacting revenge and rearranging himself accordingly when Harry doesn’t budge, he laughs mockingly. “Got to keep the missus happy, eh?”

Liam lifts his eating utensil in agreement. “Never heard truer words.”

Zayn flips both of them off and promises to hide their controllers at the next opportune time.

“I don’t like sweating, sue me.”

“I believe that would be the very definition of a frivolous lawsuit,” Louis says, stealing some of the popcorn from Harry’s lap, looking to Liam and Zayn’s dinner plates with what can almost be called _lust._ He probably hasn’t had a proper meal in days, besides the food that Zayn and Troian bring to lunch every day they’re free. “Do you guys have any of that curry left? I’m starving.”

Zayn almost tells him to fuck himself, because his earlier comments were uncalled for. But he looks so hopeful, and when Liam and Zayn nod, gratefulness flashes across his face and he’s dashing to the kitchen. Zayn thinks he might talk to Liam later on about helping Louis find a roommate. Or heck, he could be Louis’ roommate, granted he didn’t want to live somewhere too flashy. One can’t afford a luxury apartment earning just above minimum wage.

Zayn stops thinking and eats his curry.

“I need to get laid, yeah?”

Louis’ back from the kitchen by now, several minutes have passed. The Zen of the room is offset by Harry’s statement, baffling them further into silence, all of them talking amongst themselves when he tries to continue.

“Supper was good, Zayn. Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“You know, it is a bit chilly in here. I’m going to go adjust the therm—”

“My mum taught me, before she shipped me off—Liam, _sit down._ ”

“It’s a brilliant recipe. Tell me, what’s a guy have to do to get you to cook like that all the time?”

“It’s my house.”

“I pay rent. And not much,” Zayn says, laughing. “If you buy the ingredients, I’ll cook it.”

“You do _not_ pay rent.”

“Good to know. I’ll have to take you up on that.”

“I do so, and that sounds lovely, Louis.”

“You do not. Don’t say words like lovely, it creeps me out.”

Harry throws an empty bag of popcorn in the air. “ _Hello?_ Is every one going to ignore what I just said?”

They all go silent at once. Zayn can swear to several individual gods that Liam only has eyes for the greasy bag taking up space on his couch. He glares and they’re still all silent. You couldn’t hear a pen drop, Liam has very thick carpets in most places around the house, fucking area rugs. But it’s still a dramatic sort of silence. Zayn wants to laugh at the immaturity of the situation, all of them struck speechless at the talk of sex, which none of them have partaken in, thank you, and Harry brings it up like it’s nothing.

Which, it really isn’t.

“I think that was the plan, yes.”

Zayn’s never been so thankful for the brutality of Louis’ nonexistent brain-to-mouth filter. He crosses his legs and shares a look with Liam. Zayn groans. It’s about that time of the night, the time where Liam’s looks get darker and Zayn’s resolve gets thinner, weaker. Guilt slaps him in the face, because this is his sister’s boyfriend of _four years_ , even if she’s too stupid to see that Liam is too fucking _—Liam_ —to pass up, Eleanor be damned.

There was a time Zayn would have been repulsed at the thought of being in the same room as Liam, fidgeting until he was allowed to slip out, breathing in air he didn’t have to share with a pompous asshole. No doubt, Liam was still a dick—still tortured Zayn with car rides filled with endless bickering over which pop group was superior, playing N’Sync when The Backstreet Boys were obviously the better choice. Zayn can count on both hands the amount of times Liam has tried to trip him today alone. And he still flushes the toilet when Zayn is in the shower.

But he also wakes Zayn up in the morning—or afternoon if Liam’s off and Zayn isn’t scheduled for later in the day. Zayn’s taken over all of Liam’s attire, mostly sweaters, but other things, like shorts and sweats and whatever doesn’t immediately fall off the outline of his smaller frame. It’s a guilty pleasure Zayn’s long past admitted to having, tucking himself in the warmth of Liam—his clothes, his arms, his thighs covering Zayn’s cold fucking toes. Even when Zayn opens his eyes to a new day and Liam is no where to be found, he still surrounds Zayn; be it with the scratchy itch of his jumper or the brewing coffee in the kitchen or the hard white leather of the couch Zayn wakes up on. Liam is everywhere and Zayn likes it.

That scares him a hell of a lot more than Liam putting salt in his coffee.

“We’re all adults here,” Harry says but Zayn barely hears it, is raising his eyebrows at Liam, just to field his reaction. It’s a good one, he winks. Or maybe it’s bad, judging by the way Zayn’s heart goes into overdrive, accelerating to the point of nearly popping out of his chest. Yeah, it’s bad. “Or most of us are. Zayn what are you doing? Stop making faces at Liam, we’re talking about my needs.”

Louis dives for the remote on the table and turns the television up louder. Zayn doesn’t even remember turning it on. “We all have needs. Liam’s girlfriend is far, far away. God bless, no offense to any parties related to her in this room.”

“None taken.”

Louis nods appreciatively at Zayn and continues to flip through channels. “Zayn here has created a pseudo-homosexual relationship with his roommate, though I’m sure he’s been fairly acquainted with his right hand.” Zayn only protests the relationship part, giving up when Liam’s reduced to loud guffaws and Louis is raising a speculative eyebrow at him until he snaps his mouth closed. “And me, well—I’m more of a leftie. I can reach farther with that hand.”

They all laugh, except for Harry, who—god bless him—looks very, very lost. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying go rub one out in the shower and let’s never have this discussion again.”

Zayn hopes that’s the end of that awkward turn of conversation and brings his knees up to his chest. He loves and hates that Liam allows him to keep the flat at icebox temperature. Right now, he’s not in favor of it, seeing as he’s curled in a chair by himself, boxer briefs doing a shit job at keeping the bottom half of him warm. Harry is lying on the blankets Liam keeps in the living room, and Zayn isn’t willing to risk the ridicule Louis would exact if he asked for one.

So he sits there, attempts to slyly cover his legs with the bulk of his sweater. He fails.

“Come here, if you’re cold, Zayn.” Liam gives him an exasperated look, waving his arms and then lying them on either sides on the large seat invitingly. “I can’t concentrate with you wiggling around over there.”

Zayn hides his face with the cuffs of the jumper, sliding his middle finger out of the arm hole. “Stop making up reasons for me to come cuddle with you.”

Liam laughs and he gets this look on his face, one he gets whenever they start their stupid back and forth bantering. This radiant grin that has Zayn’s lips itching to smile. “I wasn’t aware we needed reasons to cuddle? I thought—”

“Would you two shut up and do whatever you’re going to do?” Louis looks done with both of them, eyes invested in the new crime drama series in front of him. Like there aren’t enough of those, already. “Zayn go crawl into his lap or something. He’s right. You’re shivering is _ever so_ distracting.”

“I’m fine.”

He speaks smaller, shrinking back into his seat. He closes his eyes for a moment because he’s being stupid. Oversensitive and stupid. Louis wasn’t harsh, just annoyed. But it’s embarrassing, having all of these people, Liam included, call him out like it’s nothing. Like the tugging strings in Zayn’s belly are nothing. Him wanting to run across the room and bite into Liam’s lower lip is nothing. Like it’s not wrong on so many levels, Zayn isn’t sure where to begin.

He doesn’t know if they’re disgusted by him, or laughing at him. Zayn isn’t sure which one would be worse.

“No, you’re not. You’re cold, there isn’t anything wrong with that.” Liam glares at Louis. Zayn tries not to look or read too much into that. “Louis, shut up every now and then, hmm?”

Zayn undoubtedly doesn’t want them bickering on his behalf, which is what will happen if Liam tells Louis to shut up again. And that’ll happen once Louis retorts. Which is bound to happen as sure as the sun shines.

“Liam, really. Don’t tell him to shut up—”

“Trust me, it was a long time coming.”

“Fuck the both of you, I’m trying to watch TV.”

“The air will go off in a minute, I’ll be alright until then.”

“Let me get you a blanket, then. If you’re set on being stubborn.”

Liam stands up and Zayn tries to move farther back into his seat. “Sit down, Christ.”

“I know my god-like features may confuse you, but my name is Liam.” Zayn observes him, watches as he physically picks up Harry to grab a blanket from underneath him and keeps his eyes on that small strip of skin teasing Zayn between Liam’s boxers and his shirt. He bends down to drape the blanket across Zayn, shoving excess fabric around his body like a cocoon, with Zayn’s arms sticking out. “It’s nice and short and easy to remember, good to use in sentences, too,” he whispers. Zayn’s vanished into the wolfish grin on Liam’s lips, lets him lean if further, his arms holding up his weight on either side of the chair. “Like, “ _Fuck,_ right there, _Liam._ ””

Zayn will slap himself later for playing along, for the finger he lets drag down Liam’s chest. For the fingernail that scratches that patch of hair he wants to rub his face against. He purses his lips and clicks his tongue. “Somehow I don’t see those words leaving my mouth any time soon.”

Liam’s lips land at his nose, no pecking just pressure, right next to Zayn’s face. “I’m sure we can come up with different sentences. You like to read, right?” Zayn nods, nods fast and hard and pulls his hands away from Liam before he pushes past the elastic in his jeans. Liam laughs and Zayn thinks he’s in love with the sound. “I have faith in your creativity, we’ll work something out.”

And he’s waltzing down the hall, leaving Zayn wrecked and hard beneath the cover his sister bought. It’s so taboo and horrible but he’s not sorry. That’s the worst part, absolutely. The lack of guilt he feels after Liam’s lips were on his face, so close to where he wanted them and so far away.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, eyes downcast, still able to feel both sets of eyes on him. “You can watch your show now, I’ll be quiet.”

“Oh, honey. That was better than anything I could have found on Showtime.”

/////

Zayn can proudly say he’s graduated from sitting beside Liam to sitting on him. Platonically, of course. Much to his dismay.

It’s only in small increments, Zayn not trusting himself to not do anything stupid—more stupid than letting Liam haul him between his legs in the first place. And Zayn gives himself an excuse to move every so often, so much so that Liam questions the integrity of his bladder several times.

Now, Liam’s chin is hooked over his shoulder and his hand is resting on Zayn’s stomach. Zayn, who is very aware of Liam’s thumb moving back and forth every goddamn second. “Eleanor is supposed to be coming back in a couple of days. She called me last night, told me the news. For some odd reason she wanted to know if she would still have a room to come back to. It was weird.”

Zayn didn’t want to talk about that with Liam. Refused to be the one to tell him that she was scared of being homeless on the basis that they’d suspected Zayn had told Liam about the conversation he had a week ago with Veronica. It wasn’t his relationship and it wasn’t his business. Zayn wouldn’t choose between his sister and his—Liam.

“That is weird,” Zayn agrees, moving Liam’s fingers up higher when they drift a little too close to Zayn’s crotch. Liam, the immature git he is, giggles into Zayn’s ear. “Above the waist, mister,” he sasses. “So what did you tell her? Eleanor, I mean.”

He pretends to bite at Zayn’s lobe and Zayn pretends like he’s not dying. “I told her we have a squatter, one who chronically masturbates in every room but his own—I could kill Louis for telling him to do that—but that if she could deal with it, then yeah, she can come back and stay. She’s got to pay rent, though.”

“I’m the only one allowed to squat in your house for free?”

“You can squat on my—”

To be an ass, Zayn grinds down into Liam’s crotch and he’s not dumb, he feels the thick line of Liam’s cock, wants to keep pressing, let him strip him and open him up and—he gets up. Liam whines and tries to pull him back but Zayn’s crossed all the lines he’s going to cross today. “Don’t’ be such a perv, Liam.”

“If I promise, will you come back?”

“Not with your dick poking my ass, I won’t.”

He sighs. “Then beside me?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, lets his presence speak for him. He leans against Liam, twines their hands when he’s sure he hears Harry snoring. Laughs when Liam growls after Zayn comments on the good looks of Dylan O’Brian. Other than that, they enjoy the silence of a quiet room, no Louis or Harry or Troy. No Alex jumping off the coffee table and onto the chairs. No video chatting to Veronica and playing nice, like Zayn doesn’t have a copious amount of dreams involving his lips and her boyfriend’s cock.

“You know, I could be the one to help out Harry.”

He says it because he’s an asshole, just as much as Liam is. And the confusion and recognition and irritation that flashes across Liam’s face makes him laugh a lot harder than he should.

“No.”

He says it like it’s not up for discussion, but Zayn is bored. He could use some entertainment. “What do you mean, _no_? You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to say that you could let Harry fuck you so he’d stop getting jizz on my bathroom rug and I said no.” He’s stiff under Zayn, hard and closed off and so, _so_ fucking desirous that it’s turning Zayn on. “Not happening, he’s a dick.”

“What about Louis, then?”

Liam scoffs, lets his hands move to Zayn’s hip, where he squeezes, lets his fingers dip into Zayn’s waist. “I doubt Louis would have sex with Harry.”

“Do you think he would have sex with me?”

Liam sits up straighter. “ _What_ —I don’t— _no._ ”

“Is there something wrong with me?” He’s teasing now, scooting closer to Liam, pressing their sides together, letting Liam’s hand fall wherever it may. “I have needs, too, you know.” He plays innocent, lets his face go conveniently blank when Liam turns to look at him. “But you’re right, Louis isn’t the right guy. Seems rather bottom-y.”

“I wouldn’t know.” And it’s cute to Zayn how relived Liam sounds. Like this is over and he can ghost his fingers to the crease of Zayn’s thigh with no explanation. As if Zayn owes him for asking him those types of questions. “Wait,” and he freezes. “Are you saying you bottom? Did you just—”

“What about Alex?”

This needs to move faster. Zayn’s tired of waiting around, wants Liam between his legs soon. Wants to speed this along, let both of them give into the temptation that’s lulling them together. “Fuck no.”

“Troian?”

“No.”

“The guy at the bar, Ian, I think his name is?”

“Zayn— _no._ No one.”

Zayn locks eyes with Liam, sees the air leave his lungs, exit out of his mouth. He’s all supple lips and a straight jaw. Zayn wants to say that he sees right though it, that there’s a soft cushion of a person on the inside of Liam’s big and brawny exterior. That deep down, behind all the sharp remarks and lewd gestures that Liam feels the same thing sparking between them That he takes this seriously. Zayn doesn’t know him well enough to tell, not yet. Maybe not ever.

So this will have to do. “Who then?”

He doesn’t fumble, or if he does his mind falls absent to it. Zayn makes a quick turn and throws a leg over Liam’s lap. His cock is there, still hard, getting harder. Liam’s moving upward, eyebrows knit as he tries to create more friction between them, the cotton of their clothes. Emboldened by the want in Liam’s eyes and travelling hands, Zayn’s fingers run over Liam’s mouth, thumbing the dip of his bottom lip.

“Just not them.”

Zayn says fuck it, and wiggles his finger into Liam’s mouth, feels himself stir. When Liam’s mouth coats him, wraps and sucks and Zayn has never been jealous of his own appendage before, but his is now. So badly wants that to be other parts of him that get to feel the rough texture of Liam’s hot, wet tongue.

He pants around Zayn’s finger, and there’s no finer sound in the world. No other sound that fills Zayn with feelings and needs and emotions that can’t be explained at surface value. “You? What about you?”

Zayn lets his finger slide out of Liam’s mouth, saliva making a trail down the scruff beyond his lips. Liam’s shirt is a ridiculous accumulation of too much fabric and buttons. Zayn undoes them, waits for Liam’s answer, spurs him on with a jolt of his hips, their cocks sliding together through thin barriers when he sees Liam following his spit-shiny finger.

“Only me,” and Liam’ grabs onto Zayn’s sides, twisting his long fingers into that damn sweater. Only, Zayn’s busy, wants to touch Liam all over and no matter how hard Liam’s tugging him forward so their lips can finally meet, he wants to— _ah,_ that. “Zayn, that feels— _fuck._ What are you— _yeah._ ”

Another good reason to keep the flat at a cool temperature are the two nubs between Zayn’s fingers right now. They tease him, only showing when Liam steps out of the shower in that oddly satisfying excuse for a towel. And the hair, so nice and manly and— _shit._ Zayn’s never really paid attention to how old Liam is, a grown man, well in his early twenties, and he has grown man chest hair and a grown man cock and a grown man apartment. There’s nothing sexier to Zayn than success, sans for the nipples he’s fingering right now, which were his original point.

Liam has fantastic nipples.

His finger is still wet, and it shines, gleams against Liam’s skin, wets his nipples and Zayn _has_ to blow on them. He watches in fascination as they harden, feels Liam beneath him, lets his hands roam to his hair and pull. Liam yanks and yanks and _yanks_ until Zayn is lifting his head, scratching one nipple with his teeth just to hear one more of Liam’s sounds. They’re at a standstill and Liam’s hands are at Zayn’s jaw, thumbs brushing stubble and skin. Zayn can’t keep his eyes off Liam’s lips, can’t stop imagining if he tastes as good there as he does in other places.

He wants to find out.

“Kiss me, Liam.” He’s a ridiculous sight, splayed out under Zayn’s fingertips, shirt open and dick tenting his boxers, round, red head peeking out at Zayn. “Kiss me so—just kiss me please.”

He wants Liam to kiss him first for a lot of reasons, one being plausible deniability. So Zayn can say that it was Liam’s idea, maybe that he was joking, that he was seeing how far he could push Liam and he didn’t expect it to go that far. Zayn doesn’t want to be the butt of anyone’s joke. But he wants Liam to grab a hold of him, throw him down on the couch and demand to be kissed back. If Liam is so big and bad, Zayn wants him to prove it. He wants be have to beg Liam not to stop, to sink teeth into his shoulder and scream his stupid name.

“I usually don’t like being told—”

But he talks too fucking much.

Their lips meet, _crash._ Zayn doesn’t bother trying to keep his moan in his mouth, fists his hands in Liam’s hair and lets their teeth and lips say everything they’ve been trying to communicate for a month and a half. Zayn kisses Liam like he wants to keep him forever, bites into the obscene swell of his lip and tugs.

Maybe Zayn does want this, but he won’t tell Liam that, hopes he can’t hear it in the heavy pants Zayn lets out when Liam lands a trail of kisses on his chin, letting them both catch their breath before Liam’s laying Zayn down. Slotting himself in between his legs, creating space where Zayn is certain there is none, but he gets closer, makes Zayn feel hotter.

“What do you want,” he asks into Zayn’s mouth, thigh rubbing against his hardening dick. “Tell me what you want.”

He almost doesn’t hear him, is too busy trying to memorize the lines of Liam’s body, the dip of dimples in his back and the knobs of his spine. “You. I want you. Just you. _Fuck_ —Liam.”

“I told you it was easy to say.” He’s nipping at Zayn, teasing now. But it’s still hard kisses and soft bites. There’s a hungry need as he travels down Zayn’s body, shucking up his sweater and kisses down the planes of his abdomen, licking and sucking and putting Zayn’s nipples into his mouth before suckling at the top of his boxer briefs.

“You talk too much, shut up.”

“Shutting up.” Him shutting up can be argued as the best and worst thing in Zayn’s life.

He hooks his fingers in Zayn’s waistband, pulls them down and laughs at the comical spring of Zayn’s cock flush against his belly. But he’s being an ass, torturing him by surpassing Zayn’s dick after a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, making Zayn buck up into his mouth before he’s clicking his tongue and moving downwards.

“Damn you,” he whispers, because he can’t fucking speak. Not when Liam’s bending his leg and touching their spot. Zayn’s ankle, the one that burns, that makes Zayn burn when Liam ghosts past it with his fingers. And now his lips. It was where everything started, where Zayn first saw Liam, really saw him. First wanted him.

“I thought you said no talking?”

He’s the devil, Zayn is for sure. Knows he’s committing sins, mouthing at Zayn’s thighs, wetting them, scratching them, making his _toes curl._ Fuck—he hopes that escapes Liam’s notice. Just when Zayn thinks this might be it, when he can feel warm breath on his cock, a hand on his balls, rolling them around, Liam moves back up.

“Can I kiss you again?” And Zayn muses at the question, is tempted to turn his head away until Liam fucking touches his dick, but he can’t. Can’t look at that mouth and turn away. He nods and Liam is descending, going slower, but not by much. Their tongues swirl and curl around in each other’s mouths. It’s sloppy and without finesse but that describes them to a tee, so he doesn’t mind. “I really like kissing you.”

“I’d really like it if you’d suck my dick.”

He doesn’t expect Liam to fall instantly, tongue barely skating over the leaking slit of his cock. Zayn’s hips pump and he struggles not to pull all the hair out of Liam’s head. There’s a wicked grin in place when Zayn can open his eyes enough to look down, gulping and containing his cries with teeth to his lip.

It’s not quite like he imagined it, it’s so much better. Liam’s lips are wide and red and so fucking wet around his dick. He takes it down his throat and Zayn vows to make him all the breakfast in the world if he just never stops. Never lets him mouth leave the heavy throb between Zayn’s legs. His spine rolls and his thighs clench when Liam lets up to pepper kisses down his shaft, hands pumping him, slick and experienced.

“Taste so—”

“What the fuck is going on here?”

The world stops on its axis.

Liam snaps up, head spinning backwards and Zayn tries to cover himself. He knows that voice, knows there’s long curls and an idiotic quiff at the other end of t, maybe even a bandana. Liam however doesn’t care, doesn’t let Zayn push him off in order to get up.

“What the fuck does it look like?”

And he’s diving back down, letting Zayn hit the back of his throat and fuck—Zayn can’t move now, never wants to move again. Wants to stay here and feel Liam bob up and down on his cock for the rest of his life. Harry yelling and leaving the room doesn’t bother him, not at all. Not while Liam is there and doing that and he’s letting Zayn tug on his hair and come down his throat.

“I bet Harry won’t want to have sex with me now.”

Liam doesn’t find that nearly as amusing as Zayn does.

They wake up in the morning, uncomfortable and stuck together in a mess of come that missed Liam’s mouth.

Liam goes to work and they sleep in the same bed that night. Harry doesn’t say anything to them, but Louis looks at Zayn a little funny when he comes over to eat and watch TV.

They don’t talk about it, but Zayn blows Liam the next morning in the shower, so he thinks it’s all okay.

/////

It’s not okay. Not all the time, at least.

Liam’s playing with Zayn: pulling the strings of his tenacity by alternating between crashing on the couch, leaving Zayn alone in that overly wide bed, and crawling in the sheets with him, cocooning him with long arms and warm smiles. Zayn doesn’t know what to think, never has time to catch his breath before Liam’s right there again and Zayn’s breaths are shallow and dense and he’s breathing in musky cologne and tyre grease.

He’s dense in the head, dumb to think anything will change. Doesn’t quite know if he wants them to, isn’t certain if he likes the way his skin tingles when Liam rubs his hip with deft fingers and brings him lunch to the shithole he calls a workplace. He doesn’t know if he can stand how Liam’s smile lights up the room, makes it easier to serve yogurt in stupid neon cups, because he has someone to go home to—to listen to him bitch and moan and talk endless shit about his shift manager. Someone to kiss, sometimes.

But things are still the same, Zayn is still pre-determined to hate his roommate—his sister’s fucking _boyfriend_ —and Liam is still calling Veronica, talking to her when Zayn comes in the door, shrugging his jacket off and sitting closer to Harry so he doesn’t jump out of his own skin and punch Liam square in the face, or sucks his bottom lip into his mouth right there in the living room. While he’s still video-chatting with Veronica.

“I love you, babe.” Though tinny, V’s voice still comes through clear enough to puncture any sanity Zayn might have been holding on to. She giggles and Zayn wants to throw up. “El will be there soon, so be nice, will ya? I’m coming for a visit soon, try not to kill my baby brother before I get there?”

Harry chokes on his beer. “Unless he’s going to choke you with his di—”

He catches an elbow to the shin from Zayn’s spot on the floor. “Shut your mouth, Harold. I swear to  _god._ ”

Thankfully, Veronica goes on with her goodbyes unfazed and Liam hangs up. Instead of unhappy, he looks amused. Zayn is not. “Sans for the shower, he hasn’t been very strong on the reciprocation front. So I don’t think that will be a problem. Care to change that, Zay—”

He’s being slimy, much like he was when Zayn wanted to strangle him and this is exactly why he never wanted to roll around in the sheets—er, couch—with him in the first place. “Sod off,” he says, not opposed to pouting and stomping out of the room. “You want someone to fuck you? Fly to France. I’m sure my sister can get the job done.”

It’s bitter and he’s laying it on fucking thick but, whatever. Zayn doesn’t need this shit, not today and not ever. He’s tired, he has a headache that’s been in permanent residence since he crossed the line of all lines and he wants to be the one making the decision of sleeping alone tonight.

“Zayn,” and God, that  _warning_  tone, the one with a timbre of scolding like Zayn is Liam’s property makes his stupid work slacks tight around his groin and Zayn wants to fucking hit him so bad. “Come here, you—fuck. I was just kidding.”

Zayn can’t kick him out of his own room, desperately wishes he never would have allowed Harry to take over his room—wishes he would have opted to sleep in Eleanor’s room, however bad the consequences, just so he could slam the door in Liam’s face. The pace of Zayn’s steps echo against the floor, matching Liam’s and he’s in the room and trying—trying to close the door but Liam is there and huge and wide and stronger than Zayn.

He forces his way in and Zayn attempts not to slam his head against the drywall. “It’s not funny, okay? Me and you—messing around while I’m living in the flat you share with my sister? Your girlfriend?” Zayn keeps his voice calm because the anger he has, at himself and Liam and mainly just his fucking hormones—he won’t let Liam see how much he bothers him. “That’s not funny to me.”

Strong hands, wide hands turn him and Zayn grits his teeth because he’s letting Liam whip him around, ever so slowly, back him up, crowd his space. He should tell Liam to turn right around and get lost—forget it. The words stay on the tip of his tongue, though. Because he wants Liam there, bulk of his body tethering Zayn to the wall, fingers brushing his jaw. Zayn wants him to do something, say anything to let him know that he’s not alone. That he’s not the only one who’s going in-fucking-sane with cravings—a need to touch Liam whenever he’s in arms reach, or not, whether it be to run his hands along his back or sucker-punch him in his smart mouth.

“Rough day at work, hmm?”

Zayn fidgets under Liam’s stare, he’s so close, close enough for his reflection to be projected in Liam’s pupils. “Work has nothing to do with you being an asshole.” Liam pokes at the protrude of Zayn’s lip. Zayn doesn’t stop him.

Doesn’t want to.

“Stop it,” he says, light-hearted. And his thigh makes his way between Zayn’s. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.” Liam’s hip bumps into Zayn’s, smile spreading across his face and Zayn doesn’t want to freaking smile back but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. Liam’s breath gets hotter as their foreheads collide. “Come back to the living room, please? I promise I’ll be good.”

“Saying shit like that—” he starts, because Liam has to know that no, it’s not cool to bring up his own sister as a source for his own amusement. “It’s bad enough that we, you know. You know.”

“Kissed,” Liam supplies. Zayn hates the sly look on his face.

They did a fuck lot more than kiss, Liam is aware of this. Zayn’s aware that he’s being a pain in the ass.

“Yeah, that.”

Liam’s lips linger at Zayn’s mouth but land on his nose, not teasing but sating. Zayn’s hands land at Liam’s chest and push, to regain some sense of dignity. Liam doesn’t budge and Zayn doesn’t mind. “Look, Zayn. Veronica and I—”

“Stop.”

“I know you think we’re—”

Zayn really would like to never have this discussion. The one where they give explanations and assign labels and talk about feelings Zayn will deny ever having and a sister he wishes he could forget about. So he kisses Liam firmly, lets their heads rest together for an exceptionally long moment because they’re not a couple, especially not one who kisses to make-up after a tiff. God, the thought makes Zayn want to throw up and smile at the same time.

“Stop,” Zayn repeats, grin pressing against the smirk made out of the soft skin of Liam’s lips.

“Stopping.”

Liam doesn’t bring up Veronica, doesn’t even say her name. And Zayn rewards him by letting him pick the movie to watch while Zayn tucks his small, cold feet under Liam’s wide, warm thighs.

It’s a bit more okay after that.

/////

Liam catches Zayn rifling through papers the next morning, job classifieds strewn aside, ads for apartments on his lap. He hasn’t had a chance to shower properly, his hair must be a mess. Liam still looks at him like he’s being served for breakfast. It’s very unnerving.

“How many times do I have to tell you to forget about moving?” Liam nudges Zayn’s legs and scatters news-clippings everywhere in favor of crawling between Zayn’s thighs. He sighs and shucks his belongings, obviously not going to get any house-hunting done with Liam’s fingers tickling his spine and his mouth peppering kisses over his chin. “Come eat with me? Arguing with you gives me an empty stomach.”

“We made up—er, something.” Zayn lets Liam scratch at his jaw and he tries—and fails—to fight a smile because it’s too early for cuddles and giggles and all the things Zayn feels for Liam that he really shouldn’t. He barely sat up long enough to temporarily look for new living quarters. Zayn pushes him away, laughter on the back of his throat. Liam is ridiculous before 10 o’clock. “Get off me, I have things to do.”

“We didn’t make up nearly as good as we should have.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” Zayn says, even though he’s a total pushover and he allows Liam to drag him farther down the mattress. Big hands run over his skin and Zayn bites back a smile at the tickle of calloused fingers over the muscles of his stomach. “I have things to look for—like a house and a car and—hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where you threw my sweater last night?”

Liam’s making trails of hungry, wet morning kisses everywhere he can reach. “It’s my sweater and I put it in the hamper after I almost tripped over it and broke my fucking ankle—”

“You’re the one that threw it over there, don’t get snappy.”

“And you’re not moving out,” he reiterates from earlier, moving himself to hover directly over Zayn, mouths meeting chastely before he moves back to look at Zayn. “You have a place to stay, so stop looking.”

It’s a nice thought, one that crosses his mind every time his heart starts beating a little faster when Liam smiles at him. Staying here, in bed, in this room and this house, with Liam—sounds like a fairy tale that he has to choke down because there are too many complications. Veronica and Liam himself, it’s too much. It makes Zayn shift uncomfortably in the sheets during the night, just the thought of it.

He doesn’t do complicated, which is why he can’t do Liam, not permanently. All of this, sleeping here and letting Liam kiss and hold and hug Zayn—it’s a temporary release of inhibitions. Nothing more, he reminds himself. Nothing.

“That’s great that you think that,” he says, sitting up and taking Liam with him, his weight nearly toppling them back down again. He regains his balance and reaches down for the classifieds, ignoring the lewd gesture Liam makes with his hand and his dick while he’s busy trying to wiggle his way into Zayn’s boxers with the tricky fingers of his free hand. “Would you—stop that. As much as you think me living here isn’t a problem, it is for me. I’m just going to look for a few more minutes and then I’ll look online.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Liam.”

Something comes over him, makes Liam move faster and harder. Zayn doesn’t have a chance to grab a hold of his newspaper because Liam’s using his weight to press Zayn into the mattress. He can’t take his eyes of the bobbing of Liam’s throat, or the pulsing of the veins in the arms that are holding him in place above the sheets. All Zayn can see is his reflection in the dark brown of Liam’s eyes and he can see every wiggle and sigh and frown as he struggles to flip them or— _something._

Zayn doesn’t trust the cunning curve of Liam’s lips before or after he leans down to slide their tongues together, bodies stuck together from the chest down. “You can—” he pauses to run lips and tongue rough over his throat. Zayn arches against his will and lets his teeth catch his lip to stop a sigh. “You can stop trying to get away, Zayn. I’m not letting you leave.”

Fuck it, he can stay here for a while. For forever, or just a couple more minutes. “I guess I could hang out here until I have to go to work.” He trickles his hands up Liam’s shoulders and his arms magically wind up around Liam’s neck, fingers in his hair. Zayn’s teeth nip at Liam’s chin. “But you have to feed me at some point. I can’t deal with you on an empty stomach.”

“Oh, no. You misunderstood me.” The pads of his fingers feel good against Zayn’s skin. He never wants Liam to stop touching him. They’re full of kisses and grins and everything is perfect. “I’m not letting you leave at all, you’re stuck with me now.”

“I could think of worse people to be stuck with—wow,” Zayn laughs. “I never thought I’d be saying that.”

“People change.”

“Yeah—yeah, I guess they do.”

/////

Zayn only gets in trouble two more times for checking residential advertisements. Both of those times he’s met with an overabundance of guilty kisses and a swift swat to the bum.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Liam had a thing for spanking, the way he delights in grabbing Zayn around the waist and throwing him around. Luckily tonight he has the soft padding of a mattress to fall back on, Liam not far behind. “You know,” he says, smiling. “You’re going to bruise me one of these days.” Liam climbs over him and fucking purrs when Zayn scratches behind Liam’s ears, messes with his lobe a little just to hear that sound again. The one that comes from deep inside his chest and shakes Zayn in the sheets. “I still have marks on my ass from Thursday.”

Liam’s laughing, but Zayn is not. “You know you like it.”

He reiterates his point by lifting them up to their knees and locking their lips, Zayn’s giggles making it hard for him to kiss Liam. It’s even worse when he starts swatting Zayn, little taps to tease and Zayn’s gripping Liam’s face and kissing him, so fucking eager because this is the hottest he’s ever felt. The most wanted.

He wants Liam to want him.

That doesn’t freak him out as much as it should, neither do the surprise slaps to his bare skin because they hurt really fucking good.

But he’ll never let Liam catch on to the fact that it excites him, ever.

For now, he’ll settle for mandatory guilt trips and lots of rambunctious rolling around in the sheets every time Liam spots a newspaper within a few feet of Zayn’s eyesight. It’s not a bad way to live.


	3. heard you iwnter time cold, shawty fall through.

“You cannot move an entire store into one closet, Eleanor. It defies several laws of physics. And some involving space, too.” Zayn slides down the door, shoving it closed before multiple bags of shirts and jumpers and socks have the chance to come through the cracks of space and tackle Zayn to the ground. “There just isn’t enough room for all this stuff.”

“Did you want me to go to Paris and come back empty-handed?” Her sarcasm is not appreciated, especially not with Liam and Harry living in the same space as Zayn; he gets enough torment from various run-throughs of elaborate jokes where he and/or his long list of failures are the punch line. “We would have room in your bedroom closet, if it was still your bedroom. And we didn’t have a fashion forward leech living in the guest quarters. I’ve seen the amount of clothes you have, Zayn. It pales very much in comparison to the racks of button-ups and fedoras in the room Harry is now calling his.”

He shrugs and stands up, ignoring the painful stretch of his back. Zayn has got to stop letting Liam sprawl himself over Zayn’s torso. He’s not exactly light if they make comparisons between the two of them. “I didn’t invite him to stay here, okay. Don’t take it out on me. How do you think I feel, having to live with all three of you?”

“Them, I understand,” she says, sympathizing and walking through an empty house with Zayn until they’re crashing on the couch, both of them reaching for the remote at the same time. He lets her have it on the strict basis that he values all ten of his fingers and wishes to keep them. “But I’m an angel. No, no—don’t scoff. There will be no scoffing when my character is taken into judgment.”

The bridge of Zayn’s nose scrunches when he recalls Eleanor stealing Harry’s hair gel to slick back Louis’ eyebrows and her shrill laughter coming from the kitchen when Liam woke up to discover himself covered in her scented body glitter. The sheets in the front bedroom were covered for days. Zayn’s found glitter on every pair of Liam’s boxers this week. Doing laundry for his overgrown landlord was a hell of a lot easier when he didn’t have to use tape to strip off any excess body decorations to prevent it from spreading to the rest of the garments in the house.

Zayn had a hard time letting Eleanor convince him that she was an angel.

“Well, with angels comes devils,” Zayn brings up, crossing his ankles and resting his feet on the coffee table. He knows he’s the only one who can get away with it. “And speaking of devils, how’s my sister doing? She’s hell-bent on not answering my calls. I haven’t spoken to her since— Well, since.”

“Since you called her out on her shit?” Eleanor provides with a twist of her lips. “Since you outed her? Made her choose? Yeah,” she says, ankles crossing in a mimic of Zayn’s actions, no hint of brackishness in her tonality, “that’s not a call one just forgets.”

Zayn doesn’t feel awful – should, but doesn’t. He shrugs his shoulder in apology nonetheless, takes the remote in order to turn up the volume, shifting uncomfortably when Eleanor laughs. “I’m sorry about that,” Zayn mumbles, eyes avoiding hers, trained to the television. “I didn’t mean to open that can of worms, I didn’t. I was—I got to know Troian and Liam and there’s nothing there. And you know V, she can be kind of—”

“Bitchy?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

They sit in a silence that can’t exactly be described as comfortable, the stiffness of Zayn’s posture refuses that. But it’s not bad, not unbearable. They exchange apologetic and reprieving looks during a taping of Charmed, their mutual love of Piper Halliwell easing the uneasiness of the room.

It goes to show you should never underestimate the power of the Charmed Ones.

Zayn checks the clock more times than he cares to recognize. His nail beds suffer at while be bides his time for Liam’s arrival. Only because he should walk through the door bearing gifts. Zayn handed Liam a very detailed list of the things they needed for nourishment, very specific that Liam’s genitals are not on the list—no matter how long he begs.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, not a dick. No.

“She’s not coming back, you know.”

Zayn is forced—gladly—off the subject of the things hanging around in Liam’s trousers. He didn’t want to think about it ever, really. He sits up straighter, turns down the television, only a little sad that Eleanor decided to journey this line of conversation when The Sisters were so close to reconstituting The Power of Three. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“What do you mean,” he asks. “She’s not coming back at the end of the summer, or she’s not coming back at all?”

“At all,” Eleanor answers, short and not so sweet. His heart sinks lower in his chest watching her draw her knees up to her chest. Her nails don’t fair too much better than Zayn’s do, only she has a better reason, something that’s deeper, means more to her. It’s—he can almost—her heart’s breaking, right there in front of him and the only condolence he can offer is a warm smile and a semi-comforting pat to the thigh. “She’s in love with it up there, Paris. She’s doing so good, Pierre wants to sign her, keep her on for a year while he does spreads for cover shoots—and she’s happy.”

The emotion in her throat makes Zayn shift in his seat, it’s not good. It feels like he’s intruding, looking into a moment that doesn’t belong to him. She’s supposed to be alone, he muses; with her thoughts and ramblings. It’s obvious in the way she talks, carries on about Veronica that there’s more than just sex between them, a bond that Zayn’s not even going to even try to wrap his brain around.

“She’s not even twenty and she’s getting everything she’s ever wanted. Too bad that doesn’t mean me,” she laughs, breathy and cynical, too scattered across the plateau of her thoughts. “I’m not worried,” she shrugs, when it’s obvious to Zayn that her lack of concern is feigned. “She’s a big girl—she can make her own decisions. If she wants to take Liam and travel all around the world—even if she’s not in love with him, even if she’s not attracted to his gender—whatever. I’m done with her.”

It all comes out in a flurry of information, one that Zayn has to rummage through after the fact, one thing catches him in the long winds of her wordings. Zayn’s teeth sink into the skin of his lip and this time he’s the one bringing his knees up to the annoyingly speedy pattering of his heart.

“Did you say Liam was travelling with her?”

The contempt of her snort sheds light on Zayn’s dying—fuck, he doesn’t even know what it is, isn’t sure why he cares. Liam can go wherever he wants to go, Zayn won’t stop him. He doesn’t have a reason to, doesn’t have a reason to want to. “Fat chance. Liam’s got a life of his own to live, I doubt he wants to follow her around the world with his head up her ass.”

“Yeah, that’s really not the type of person Liam is.”

Her head shakes. “No, he—how would you know what type of person Liam is?”

Zayn’s hands might as well be painted red, a bright and flashy red. It would match his cheeks, because he can feel them flaming, warming up his face and shit, he has no reason to be embarrassed because Eleanor doesn’t know shit about Zayn and Liam. There’s no Zayn and Liam to know about really, that’s not a stretch, it’s the truth. The cold, hard, _true_ truth.

“I’ve lived in this apartment with him for over two months now,” he explains, turning the volume up a bit louder because he can. Because Eleanor’s eyes are crude and annoying and _judgey_. “It’s just an observation, nothing else.”

“Not to mention you’ve been sleeping in their room on the floor,” she says, heels digging into Liam’s precious couch in a way he’s going to be hearing about for days, good god. “I’ve passed out on that exact floor a million times, I know it’s not comfortable. It’s a shame Liam won’t just let you sleep on this dumb couch.” Zayn isn’t certain, can’t be completely sure, but he thinks he sees Eleanor glare at the couch, like it’s an actual living thing that can be given dirty looks. “Someone’s got to kick Harry out sooner or later, you’re gonna have the back of an eighty-year old man in a week, tops.”

Zayn could correct her, tell her even though he’s got too much dignity to sleep on the floor—seriously, has she met Zayn? That’s not happening—that he doesn’t have enough not to be crawling in bed with Liam at night. And no matter how shitty that makes him feel, the hairs on his arms rising every time Veronica’s name is spoken aloud—he’s definitely not sleeping on the floor.

After all, Eleanor has a point.

And Zayn can’t scoop ice-cream out of deep freezers if he’s got a messed up back, so really he’s doing it for the greater good. Another lesson he picked up from The Charmed Ones.

/////

“The unemployment line has lost a ticketholder. I am free from the troughs of poverty.” Zayn’s unable to keep himself from rolling his eyes at Harry’s tirade. “Free at last, I’m free at last!”

Liam’s right behind Harry, carrying Zayn’s beloved groceries. “You’re going to be free of food and shelter if you don’t shut up. Grab the frozen broccoli out of the backseat; it’s going to melt on my seats. And if it does, you won’t be alive long enough to make it to your first day.”

“Who in this flat eats frozen broccoli, _gross._ ”

Zayn uses all the brain power he harnesses in an attempt to stop Liam from ratting out Zayn’s strange affection for vegetables, but alas it’s not enough and Liam fucking smiles at him, mouth turning up wickedly on his way to the refrigerator. “Zaynie’s very anal about his veggie intake. Isn’t that right, Malik?”

Zayn looks over the couch long enough to enjoy the reaction of Liam’s face when Zayn flips him off.

Harry’s rushing off, and the three original tenants laugh at his enthusiasm for fetching _broccoli_.

Zayn shivers, actually feels tingles rush down his disloyal spine when Liam walks by the back of the couch, fairly unimpressed by Zayn’s earlier petulant indication. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, really.

“What’s his deal?”

Eleanor’s distracted by her surroundings, her eyes thankfully too caught up in watching Harry walk out the door to notice Liam bend down and use the shell of Zayn’s ear as a biting post, arms coming quick, hands sliding around Zayn’s neck and dipping into his collar bone, leaving as quickly as they came. “Sweater, _now._ ”

“Fuck you, _now,_ ” Zayn reflects lowly, ignoring him because that’s the best tactic Zayn’s got when it comes to dealing with Liam. Pretending he’s not there until he eventually goes away. “I’m not cold and you’re not my boss. _Also,_ she asked you a question,” he hisses when he sees Eleanor start to turn back around.

Liam’s hands are gone in time and he’s explaining while Zayn’s exhaling, breathing air in and out. In and out.

“He called me on my lunch break and asked me to take him by some radio station after I got off work. So I went to Troy’s and cleaned up and took him over there.” Liam parks his annoying little bum right next to Zayn, creating an irritable Eleanor in the process, Zayn doesn’t blame her. All the wiggling and worming Liam does in order to make himself fit is starting to piss _Zayn_ off. “He went in for twenty minutes and—“ Liam shrugs, “when he came out, he had a job. That’s all I know.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m going to hear him on the radio now?”

Zayn would share in Eleanor’s pain if Liam wasn’t moving himself impossibly closer to Zayn, no matter how far Zayn scoots away, hands seeking arms and thighs. Zayn can’t think of anything more he doesn’t need right now than this. If Liam keeps it up—and with the obvious discomfort in Zayn’s shoulders—he knows he will, he’s going to need that sweater soon. Only, the shakes that will rack Zayn’s body won’t have anything to do with the vent being right above his head.

“No, Eleanor,” Harry says, coming through the door, shutting it behind him, either too blind or happy to notice the slit of Liam’s eyes when he slams it and the pictures on the foyer wall shake. Zayn’s fingers slide up Liam’s leg, out of view from everyone else, he squeezes, just enough to distract him from maiming Harry. That’s all, he doesn’t enjoy it. At all. “I will be serving coffee, not as glamorous and my friend Zayn here— _don’t_ flip me off, have some manners—but it’ll do. And I’ll run errands and sort through some mail, it’ll all be very boring and no fun at all but I am employed. That is all that matters.”

“What station is it?”

“KORQ, the oldies station.”

There are times when Eleanor rolls her eyes and the whole world can feel it, or at least the whole room can. Zayn has a tendency to be a tad bit dramatic. But this is definitely one of those times. “It figures. They have questionable taste in music; it’s not a stretch that they’d hire—”

“Closet space, Eleanor,” Zayn reminds her, fingers still dangerously playing with the ripped stitch of Liam’s jeans. He looks really good in jeans. Looks even better out of them—and that’s _not_ the point Zayn’s meant to be focusing on. “Think of all the closet space.”

It takes her a second but she catches on, nodding furiously and changing her tune. “Forget what I said earlier, they made a great choice. Fan- _tastic_. When’s your first day, tomorrow? You should be getting a promotion by the end of the week; you’re going to do so well.” Harry’s got this look, one that screams confusion and flattery, and just a bit more confusion. And well, Zayn has to smother a laugh in the bone of Liam’s shoulder because it’s really kind of adorable. It gets better, so much better when she leans forward and reaches out towards the chair he’s taken to sitting in, and pats his leg. “I have faith in you, Harold.”

“It’s Harry.”

The nice demeanor vanishes. “It’s whatever I say it is.”

From there, an argument starts, one that Zayn isn’t partial to hearing, so he stops listening. Instead he busies himself with making a valiant effort to ignore Liam’s creeping hands. Also trying to convince himself— _Liam_. Trying to convince Liam he doesn’t like it. “Do you have any idea what those two are squabbling about?”

“I don’t,” is so simple to say. Just two words and Zayn can stop talking, and that’s perfect. The best. Two word phrases are the best, it’s been proven.

Liam’s palms are heating up the skin on Zayn’s exposed thigh, and he’s never wished to have pants on so bad because they have company. Eleanor shaped company. The same Eleanor that—fuck, that feels g—bad. That feels bad. To make a long story short, Eleanor might be doing things under the covers that cross the best friend trope by leaps and bounds, but she’s still Veronica’s best friend.

Veronica, who just happens to be Zayn’s sister.

And Liam’s girlfriend.

So groping? Groping was out. Kissing was gone, too. And touching, Zayn thinks, retracting his hand—touching was being put on hold as well. At least until Eleanor wasn’t in the room, because Zayn wasn’t stupid, never that. He knew no matter how much he fought Liam internally, telling himself he didn’t like his voice in Zayn’s ear and his hands on Zayn’s hips, that his body would give him away with a shiver and an arch.

“Come to the club with me tonight? Troian’s going, Alex too. Even Eleanor’s going out.” Eleanor’s too busy taking turns insulting Harry’s intelligence and complimenting his looks when she remembers she needs him to move for the sake of her Prada. “I’ll buy you a drink,” he says, again with the fucking whispering. And the touching, and _fuck_ —yeah, and the kissing. “Maybe bring you back to my place? _Our place._ Fuck you—”

Zayn’s up, up and away from Liam’s hands and eyes and voice and everything. Just—just away from Liam. “No thanks,” he says in parting.

And really, he’s thinking two word phrases might turn out to be his thing.

/////

Once Harry’s calmed down enough, not bouncing off the walls and beside himself with elation, Liam and Eleanor busy themselves with getting ready to go out. Zayn doesn’t count on being able to use either bathroom for the next hour, because Liam takes just as long to fix himself up as Eleanor does. Lord knows what takes him so long, seeing as his hair is just over an inch long and the scruff on his face is the least bit manicured.

Boys.

“Not spending the night on the town to celebrate?” Zayn’s still in his spot, this time with a book on his lap. His allergies aren’t being kind to him, and his glasses are making it worse. But Zayn’s been aching to read the new book Liam picked up at Barnes and Noble’s when he had to stop by for a manual on Honda Civics. Harry lounges beside him, legs sprawled out on the length of the couch, no regard for the fact that Zayn was actually sitting here first. “You don’t want to go out and paint the town red? Maybe a dark shade of orange.”

“I thought I’d stay here and keep you company.”

“Even a nice shade of pink would do.”

Zayn’s intentions aren’t harsh, he would just really appreciate the flat to himself for once. With Eleanor creeping around and Zayn trying not to get caught with his hand down his pants—Liam’s pants?—he really hasn’t had time to sit back and relax in a few days. Harry switches on the television that Zayn had finished turning off only minutes ago. Zayn makes a point of sighing.

“You don’t want me here, do you?”

No. “That’s not it, Harry. I—I just.” He holds his book up, sniffles and wonders what the fuck’s got his nose so stuffy. Zayn rubs at his forehead. “I wanted to be alone tonight.”

Allow fate to make that the exact moment Liam walks by. “Doing some heavy wanking later on, babe?”

A kiss and a poke to the neck is what Zayn gets, in return he gives Liam the prized finger. The one Zayn’s using especially for him these days. “I’m pleasuring myself by the sole thought of you being miles and miles away from me.”

“At least you’re thinking of me,” he responds, succeeding in pissing Zayn off and stirring him at the same time if that was his plan. Zayn can feel his cheek twitch the closer Liam gets, teasing lips at the corner of his mouth as he passes by. The growing spread of his smile is cocky and sure as Zayn tilts his head back against his will, because fuck—the scratch of Liam’s chin feels good, too good to ignore, damn him. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

He’s playing at something, itching to get Zayn to turn around and pursue this—whatever this is. But Zayn won’t—can’t because Eleanor’s heels are clacking and Zayn is moving out of range faster than Liam can put his hands out to stop him. “You two better be off, hmm? If I know Troian, and I do, she’s not going to wait around for you guys to show up late.”

“Zayn.”

It’s another warning that Zayn doesn’t heed. Liam isn’t his father, can’t tell him what to do; no matter what he thinks. The incessant tapping zones out, going out of range instead of coming closer and Zayn takes the opportunity to claw his fingers into Liam’s stupid jersey. Liam bends farther over the couch and Zayn really, really wishes he wouldn’t have forced Liam into Zayn’s full eyesight.

His hair’s stuck up that way Zayn won’t admit he likes, tall and airy and begging to be messed up because sometimes Zayn forgets he’s supposed to control himself. That he has manners and decorum and he doesn’t melt at the sight of the subtle flexing of Liam’s arms. Or, he’s not meant to. It’s not in his destiny or some shit. But the curve of Liam’s lips makes him think otherwise, gives him a divine sense of worth.

His fucking _mouth,_ it’s a dangerous thing. Has the power to render Zayn speechless, kind of like now, when Zayn had a very good point on the tip of his tongue before he brought Liam around—Liam, whose tongue stuck out in a blur to lick the red of his bottom lip, licked in nerves that Liam should never have. People who look like Liam does, sinful and ravishing in a stupid goddamn see-through jersey and some idiotic top that showcased things Zayn would pretend not to see now, but imagine when he was in the shower later.

It’s like a dam that breaks down, one that holds in the things Zayn shouldn’t feel about Liam or his appearance. One that comes down when it’s just them. Which, isn’t the case now, but Zayn has a hard time remembering other people are in the room when Liam’s face is that close to his and his mouth is just right there.

“I’ll see you tonight?” Zayn nods because he’s weak and Eleanor is far, far away. “Don’t have too much fun without me,” he breathes, and Zayn can’t see them, but he knows he flushes red to the tips of his ears, even harder so when Liam nibbles the tips of them, tongue sliding over the shell of his ear until Zayn’s a small ball of miniscule vibrations that he can’t hide from Liam with the proximity. “Be in bed when I get back?”

“Just because I—Liam, Harry’s _right there._ What do you mean _so,_ shit—.” Zayn’s voice gets caught in his throat at the bite of Liam’s teeth into the stretch of his neck. “You’re not getting to third base just because I let you kiss me, Liam.”

He sneaks a hand around, chest still to Zayn’s back, the couch serving as no substantial barrier when Liam’s fingers dance along his side and the muscle of his thigh. Zayn shivers, moves back due to the weakness of his resolve. Liam is a bastard. “I think we both know we did more than that.” Liam’s catching on quickly, noting the sudden strain in Zayn’s shoulders at the echo of Eleanor’s coming arrival and catching Zayn’s lips quickly, tongue only sliding out because he’s evil, pure evil. And he’s backing up, hovering to a visually platonic distance. “I’ll see you soon. I have a clean sweater in the dryer, I warmed it up for you. Bye.”

Liam gone just like that, hooking his arm with Eleanor’s and escorting her out like he’s some type of gentleman, which is ridiculous in its own right. In a flurry of waves and goodbyes, they’re out the door and Zayn’s left with a smile on his face and a book in his hand. And Harry, but he’s hoping he’ll keep to himself while Zayn enjoys the high he’s left with.

To further concrete Zayn’s good mood, Harry unfolds himself from the couch and scampers off.

Yes, tonight’s going to be a good night.

“Here’s the sweater Liam was talking about.”

Well, maybe. “Thanks, Haz.”

“You two seem pretty cozy lately. I’m happy for you, he—uh. He’s a good guy. You look good together.”

Or maybe not.

Zayn gets himself tangled in Liam’s sweater, and there’s no way this fits Liam, because it hangs off of Zayn more than any of the other jumpers Liam owns. His hands worm out of the sleeve and he pushes his glasses back up on his face.

Liam’s sweater is grey, nothing special, sans for the stupid cartoon silhouette of a car. The neck is stretched and worn and the top of Zayn’s tattoos peak out. He pokes at them and snuggles back farther into the couch, comfortable and glad he’d put it on. It was warm and it smelled drastically like Liam did when he just got out of the shower. That’s probably in notable thanks to his detergent being the same brand as his body wash. Leave it to Liam to be oddly symmetrical about the scent of his hygiene products. It was quirky and strange and Zayn liked it, weirdly enough.

“Did you hear me? I said you two—”

Zayn’s shoulders sag, he sighs. “I heard you, I was ignoring you.”

Harry’s still there, not away like Zayn had hoped in the disaster of inserting himself into this article of clothing that could double as a circus tent. The tamed curl of his hair isn’t as high as it normally is, he’s more relaxed. As laid-back as one gets without actually laying back. Zayn’s knees find their way to his chest and under the bulk of Liam’s jumper, and he side-eyes Harry folding his feet underneath his body and resting his elbows on his knees, head in his hands and eyes on Zayn.

“I’m sorry, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on his book, reading the same paragraph for the second time in the last thirty seconds. “For what, Harry?”

“The fire.”

No. Zayn doesn’t want to talk about this, not now. Not ever. He can admit to clamming up, gripping the cover of his book a little tighter with slightly damper hands. “We did our community service and paid our dues with three and a half years of boarding school. There’s nothing to talk about.”

There was everything to talk about, like how Harry was a dick. Would always be a dick for letting Zayn go down with him, scared to be punished by himself, even though he’s the one that lit the match and he’s unquestionably the one who threw it. They’re four years older now, no longer fourteen and stupid—as far as starting fires are concerned. Skewing trash on the side of the freeway for 2,500 hours has surely taught Zayn his lesson. Cleaning up abandoned buildings. Sweeping retirement homes. Power-washing city vehicles. The list is endless and ever-changing, but it served its purpose. If Zayn had an inkling of desire for a bad streak when he was running around with Harry, trying to impress the whole neighborhood, it was gone forever.

Zayn terrifically learned that his actions came with consequences.

He thinks this, gets dragged into a world of guilty thoughts and flashing scenes of terrible things that could happen. Lighting the Austin house on fire wasn’t his only mistake, not by far. Wasn’t the only one he would ever pay for. The scratch of cotton brought him to a realization that maybe carrying on with Veronica’s boyfriend might have more repercussions, ones that he won’t be able to come back from. Their relationship is tense at best, cordial only when they need a favor from the other, not the greatest with Zayn being away for so long.

He doesn’t know, can’t decide.

But Harry’s talking a-fucking-gain, so he doesn’t have much time to process the things zipping through his mind without appearing rude.  

“I know you hate me now—don’t, just let me talk, okay? Let me talk.” Zayn had begun to protest, because he doesn’t hate Harry, that’s absurd. He doesn’t trust Harry, that’s all. It’s not like he doesn’t have a reason to, multiple ones based on their past experiences and judge of character. But he waves Harry on and burrows himself deeper into the cushion of the couch, fingers playing at the hem of Liam’s sweater. “You hate me and that’s understandable. We’ll never be like we used to be, I know that. I can’t go back and change the past, but I can make things better now. I can, Zayn.”

“I don’t hate you,” is all he mumbles. But the disbelief on Harry’s face spurs him forward. He was never going to get to read this book, shit. “I don’t trust you. I think your hair is incredibly too high. You snore pretty loud at night. I want to strangle you sometimes, but I don’t hate you.”

Zayn almost comes undone with laughter when all Harry retracts from all of that is the low-blow to his hair, as his fingers instantly curl into his fringe when Zayn’s done talking. “I was trying something new.”

“Well, don’t,” Zayn advises, toes wiggling in the cold. “If it gets any taller, you’re going to have your own staircase to heaven. Which isn’t as appealing as the name suggests.”

They share smiles across the room, silent and less pressed to let conversation flow. Harry looks pretty calm for a guy who was just told he was untrustworthy. But considering he did live with Gemma, Zayn’s sure he’s heard worse. At the internal mention of annoying older sisters, Zayn hangs his head again.

“I’m meeting with a lawyer next week.”

Zayn deliberately rolls in eyes in Harry’s line of vision. “What did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Zayn purses his lips. “No, I swear. It’s a meeting to line up enough community service to get any charges the fire might have brought up off my record.”

“They didn’t press any charges, Harry. Our parents bought them a new house and we got sent away with community service. Shit- that wasn’t even mandatory without that Troy guy making a scene of it, but Anne and Trish insisted.” Zayn stops to take a breath, remembers the looks of betrayal he’d gotten from his father, the one of disturbance he’d received from his mother, neither one of them capable of believing their son would of such a thing. Guilty or not, Zayn still sat and watched it happen, hadn’t struggled hard enough to run and call an ambulance after Harry had refused to let him leave. Zayn disgusted himself. “But I don’t blame then, really. I don’t. We deserved more punishment than we got because we did something wrong, Harry.”

“We were kids.”

The phrasing makes Zayn think of Liam, which doesn’t bode well for the guilt settling in his stomach—but the words he’d said to Zayn so long ago resound in his head. “Teenagers sneak out and eat too many chips. They don’t burn down houses,” he finishes, because Liam never did. And shit, he’s got to stop thinking about Liam.

It’s not healthy or orthodox. Open relationship or not—which was really slutty on Liam and Veronica’s part, honestly—Liam did have a girlfriend, one who wanted to come home and sweep Liam off his feet, pack their bags and take off around the world.

Zayn didn’t think he could sit and watch Liam leave and that made him sick. Sicker than he’d ever been. Sicker than the fire. Than Niall breaking his heart. Than living here with Liam when he swore to hate him for the rest of his life. Sicker than the feelings he’d tried hard to ignore and fail to develop. For Liam. But above all, the thought of watching someone—Liam—pick an exact replica of Zayn over him, it made him want to wrap his arms around himself and drown in his own tears.

“That’s funny.” Harry’s speaking again—Zayn thought this conversation was over?—so he listens. “Liam said the exact same thing to me, like, the second day after you got here.”

That doesn’t surprise Zayn. “He said it to me on the same day, I think.”

Zayn lays his cheek on his knee, body curled up on the couch, book beside him, forgotten. With topics being brought up left and right, internally and out loud, Zayn thinks he’s getting a physical pain from it in his chest. He rubs his face over the cotton of Liam’s sleeves and closes his eyes, inhaling.

“I don’t see why you fight it so much.” Zayn knows what he’s talking about, figures Liam and Harry don’t have enough conversations for Zayn to shrug, admitting that yeah, he’s fighting it like hell. Liam and his feelings for Liam. Stupid Liam. “You look really happy around him. He makes you smile a lot, even if half the time you’re smiling because you did something mean like erase his TiVo recordings.” Zayn grins to himself at the recollection, the swats and kisses he’d gotten later that night for deleting those stupid American Hog shows from _their_ recording list. “There was a time where I would have killed to get you to look at me like that.”

Zayn knows that too, once would have mirrored Harry’s words back to him. He still loves him, Harry. He was Zayn’s first everything, kiss and hug and the first person he smoked a cigarette with. It was inevitable for Zayn to fall head over heels for him. He was, for all intents and purposes. Zayn wanted to see Harry, just a glimpse of him every day until he met Niall. Then he fell into a different kind of love, one that was far more dangerous, far less forthcoming. But he got away, let Niall at the hand of Josh. Because Josh was the kind of friend he needed, one who would look out for Zayn with Harry being so, so far away.

No he’s nothing, no love. Just lost.

But Zayn doesn’t need someone to complete him, that’s never been his style. He just wants Liam, consequences be damned, even though as he says that, Veronica’s betrayed face flashes in his mind. But the curve of Liam’s smile, the wide berth of his hands, his forehead against Zayn’s—it all overpowers that. All of it.

Liam makes Zayn feel more alive than guilty.

If that doesn’t tell him something, then he doesn’t know what will.

“I’m sorry, Haz.” Zayn’s apologizing for not returning his feelings, for abandoning him when they got back, for leaving him high and dry and alone. “I’m sorry, too. Yeah? I wish things could have worked out for us.”

It’s a lie, he doesn’t.

“Yeah, well, I see you and him. And well, I don’t.”

The rift is gone, air is able to flow freely between them and Zayn can breathe easier, smile more genuine at Harry when he looks over at him. “You want to go for lunch on Friday? Catch up on all we missed, even though we’re living in the same house? It’ll be nice. I’ll even pay for it.”

“How about Thursday? I uh, I have lunch with Louis every Friday.”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again, trying to find an excuse that Zayn doesn’t need to hear. He’s glad that Harry’s found a friend, even if it’s Louis—loud and annoying and rambunctious Louis. Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense that they would befriend one another. “Thursday sounds good, Haz. It sounds real good.”

“I’ll leave you alone now, to read your book or whatever.”

“That sounds even better.”

/////

The bulk of Harry’s weight isn’t too much to bear when Zayn’s left alone to pay the allotted attention to his fresh pages of his book. Zayn’s swaddled in blankets and cotton, quilt over his legs—pillowing Harry’s thick fucking skull—and the cotton of the sweater bounding his arms and torso to very large confines. He’s reserved to limited movement, the miles of fabric making movement annoying and difficult. But it keeps Liam close, the smell of him, a reminder that he’s going to return to be a pain in Zayn’s ass, but return nonetheless.

“Don’t you look comfortable?”

Zayn’s novel falls closed, he jumps. Zayn doesn’t know if it says something about Liam and his knack for stealth or Zayn’s far-off realm of reality in the soft pages of the book in his lap. The doorframe holds Liam’s silhouette and Zayn wants to shoot himself in the foot at the giddiness that rises in his throat. Zayn watches Liam move closer, face only lit by the lamp turned on at Zayn’s side. His eyebrows raise and he takes in the scene before him, Harry’s curls in Zayn’s lap, the lanky lad’s fingers dug into Zayn’s thigh.

“He’s got the biggest skull in the history of ever, but yeah, I’m alright,” Zayn comments lightly, flutters in his stomach not making it easy in the slightest to sit here and pretend that he hadn’t recently decided that Liam was worth more than a few minutes of his day. Though, the looking is off-putting, makes Zayn squirm in his spot, leather sticking to the perspiration of his thighs. “Quit staring, it’s creeping me out.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

No. No, that’s not what Zayn wanted at all. He beckons Liam with a dangle of his fingers, taps the meat of his thigh with his hand. “You can come over here, if you want.” The lift of Liam’s grin alerts Zayn to the eagerness of the words rushed from his lips. Also not one of his intentions. “I mean, if it’s necessary. If you absolutely must,” he sighs, shoulders sagging but smile giving him away, telling Liam that Zayn is a sap who can’t control the fucking _fond_ on his face.

“Don’t sound so happy about it.” Liam looks him over, head to toe with his dumbly red cheeks and drunken little stumbles. He’s not too out of it, but the alcohol does attractive things to his stagger and his smile, unmasks what very little hesitation he’s had to move forward and announce his presence to Zayn’s senses. Liam’s there, in front of Zayn who has Harry’s head still in his lap. He holds out one finger, just one, as an invitation. “How about we go to our room instead?”

“Your room,” he corrects in passing, accepting Liam’s—er, finger and standing up, smothering giggles into Liam’s chest when Harry muses in his sleep as his head connects with the stiff leather of the sofa. The fact that Liam doesn’t have trouble holding up Zayn’s weight clarifies his alcohol level. Liam looks down at him, just the slightest because Zayn’s not that fucking short, thank you. “You’re in a good mood tonight.” Zayn looks behind him, back to the foyer and the front door. “Where’s Eleanor? Is she not coming home tonight?”

There are nuzzles, Liam’s cheek next to Zayn’s ducking down to line sloppy pecks at his ear and his temple. He’s ridiculous, Liam is, and Zayn thinks he’s lucky to have found someone so fit to mess around with. Can’t believe it took him so long to adhere to his advances. Zayn takes time tight there to appreciate Liam’s physique, all while trying to walk backwards and keep his laughter under wraps until he and Liam are safely behind the oak door of the bedroom.

“Don’t know,” he slurs, only just. Zayn’s still the one walking backwards, still has to beware of falling backwards to his death and press his fingers into the dents of Liam’s torso, abs bunching under his touch. “The only person I’m concerned about coming is you.”

The kisses and dorky fucking Cheshire Cat grins that Liam’s slotting into Zayn’s neck and shoulder make it hard for him to reach behind him, twist the doorknob, and snort at the same time. “If I wasn’t going to let you get into my pants before, what the hell would possess you to think I would do otherwise when you’re using lines like that?”

“Too many big words coming out of your mouth,” he slurs, hands cupping Zayn’s thighs and leading him to the side of his bed, mountains of covers cushioning his fall from Liam’s unsteady hands. “Use them for something better.”

The roll of Zayn’s eyes must be obvious, and he’s upset that Liam can read him that well, feel the tension in his neck and know that Zayn’s silently mocked him and the cheese that happens to spill out of his mouth whenever he opens it. But the fond returns in time to quell him, breath knocked out of his lungs in amazement and laughter and desire when Liam falls forward and shucks Zayn’s thighs around his waist, leaving their hips to interact in jerks and grinds, matching smiles in place.

Zayn removes his glasses, ignoring Liam’s mouthy protests. “Keep them on,” he mumbles into the front of Zayn’s throat, experimenting with bites to his Adam’s apple, nipping and licking and doing everything in his power to make Zayn wiggle in his grasp because his the wiry hairs on Liam’s chin makes everything tickle or itch or fucking burn so goddamn good. And Zayn’s trying to concentrate long enough to hold Liam’s head in place and launch his glasses to a safe place simultaneously. “I want to fuck—hmm,” he hums, distracted before he digs his hands into Zayn’s messy hair and licks a stripe up his neck accompanied by a bite to keep Zayn in place. “I want to fuck you in those things. Look so fucking hot in them, sexy little—”

“Finish that sentence with any type of word that has secretarial meaning, I’ll leave right now.”

Liam’s fingers untangle themselves in order to lift Zayn’s chin with both of his hands, moment too intimate to sit well in the bottom of Zayn’s stomach. He pretends to busy himself by watching his hands move between them, his fingers winding around under Liam’s jersey to find the grooves and thumb the contours of his stomach. Sex tints the air, the smell of want and nervous sweat fills Zayn’s nostrils when he breathes in. Liam’s still looking at him, waiting for Zayn to look back up, but it’s not going to happen, because you don’t dive into the gaze of someone you’re only looking to have sex with. To feel under your hands and inside you, marking you for the night and vanishing in the morning after Zayn’s morning coffee.

“I thought I already told you I wasn’t letting you go anywhere.” He doesn’t wait for Zayn to answer, dips down and presses a smile into Zayn’s frown. Lips find the corners of Zayn’s mouth, pressing here and there with Liam’s hands dragging up and down the tendons in Zayn’s neck and the twitch of his jaw. “Kiss me, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t know why he’s shaking, chalks it up to the adrenaline, knows in the back of his mind that he’s full of shit but doesn’t let the thought linger in his brain for too long. He opens up at Liam’s request, parts his lips and lets Liam crawl inside because that’s what it feels like. Like this is the first time he’s kissed Liam, and that’s ridiculous seeing how his lips touched Liam’s hours before now, dry and unassuming but a kiss nevertheless.

It’s a commanding kiss, packs a punch and makes Zayn reel when Liam’s hands are around his face, holding Zayn in place, like he has every intention of leaving the best kiss he’s ever gotten. It’s powerful, takes over Zayn like taste buds erupting, sending him back in time to a specific place and time and memory that he’d forgotten. That’s what it is when Liam’s hands move to Zayn’s body, leaving his lips wet and swollen and lonely long enough to get Zayn out of his clothes, stripping them with the trace of fingernails in their wake, ghosting over the sensitive skin of Zayn’s overly-responsive body—it’s something different but familiar. Never good or bad every time, but never failing to make him feel something.

“That’s better,” Liam gets out between sins whispered against Zayn’s lips, breath baited and warm and dizzying. “You’re naked. Liked that sweater on you, but damn, babe, I like you naked.”

Zayn realizes that, that he’s fucking naked. Also understands that Liam’s very clothed above him. He bucks again for what feels like the millionth time with the course fabric of Liam’s jeans rubbing against him. But it’s hard to pay attention to anything like his naked skin against Liam’s clothed body when Liam’s lips are moving again, traveling against unchartered miles of muscles and tendons and nerves in Zayn’s neck, sucking like he’s fucking starving for it. Teeth unkind to Zayn, but he doesn’t mind, doesn’t care just wants more. Never wants it to stop.

He’s alive with energy, thrashing under Liam’s bulk, thickening just at the thought of Liam. His hands and his mouth-fuck, his mouth. And his smile, and the way he walked and talked and said words the wrong way sometimes. All of that wrapped in a beautiful, unblemished man—well, it makes Zayn’s hands wander a little further, to the ends of Liam’s shirt, tugging and not opposed to ripping the holed stitching just so it will fucking come off.

“Hey,” Liam kisses him, placates his odd and suddenly needy behavior. “This is my favorite shirt, ba—”

Liam doesn’t have hair, not long enough for Zayn to dig into, to wrap around his fingers and pull, so he settles for Liam’s neck instead, smiles into the shell of Liam’s ear when he’s close enough, enjoys the hiss, rolls his bare hips up in reward. “This is not a shirt,” Zayn explains, not too ashamed to let his cock slide against the bottom of Liam’s abs, trails of hair tickling him and making it hard not to wrap his legs around Liam’s waist to get him closer. He nods down, gesturing to the unpleasant covering of Liam’s body to Zayn’s eyes, “That’s something that needs to be burned because _no one_ looks good in those things. Except you, and well—you look too good. So don’t.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to be embarrassed by all the slips of his tongue. Liam may be stumbling over words and letting his hands fumble in the name of alcohol but Zayn is drunk on _Liam_. “Jealous, ba—”

Zayn bites for real this time, latches his teeth without abandon into the smirk of Liam’s lips and lets Liam swallow his cackles. “And don’t fucking call me babe. Baby. Nothing,” he says, letting Liam leave long enough to get himself out of his pants. “I’ll rip your tongue out. I’m nineteen, not a child.”

Liam’s still in boxers. He catches Zayn eyeing the line of his cock in the tight confines of cotton, dribbles of slick pooling in a spot near his hip. Zayn reaches out and is swatted away, lifted and dropped further up on the bed with Liam above him on his hands and knees, red eyes trained on Zayn’s cock, mouth open, no distractions calling to him, determination that tells Zayn he’s in for something good.

He wants Liam to look at him like that, always.

For sex reasons, nothing more.

“What if I promise to do really, really good things with my tongue?”

“Do it,” he whines, in no mood to listen to all the filthy things that Liam can get out of his mouth. “Suck me, please. Please _, please._ Do it.”

And finally, fucking finally—before Zayn’s even done bitching and pleading—Liam wraps his fingers around the thick line of Zayn’s dick, rubs his thumb over the slick of his head, bends to wrap his fucking lips around Zayn, tongue lapping at his weeping slit. Liam’s gentle, fingers cupping and holing Zayn, hand wrapping around him and tugging, thumb reaching up to swipe again, Zayn’s hips responding in kind. Liam will always have the best lips, ones that Zayn lets embed into his brain, just the vision of Liam’s mouth full of cock—Zayn’s cock.

It’s beautiful—Liam is, a sight to see—and encourages Zayn’s hands find their way to his chest, fingernails scratching at his nipples for added stimulation, only moving when Liam shakes his head at him, reaching up to bind Zayn’s wrists and lay kisses to his throat, never back up to his lips because Liam is a bastard and Zayn is pathetic.

“Am I doing good?”

“Stop fucking _talking,_ dammit. Just— _fuck,_ yeah. You are, fuckin’ _yes_.” 

His smile stretches around Zayn’s cock at the stutters of breath hiccupping from Zayn’s lips. Liam has to hold him, Zayn does it on purpose, lets his pelvic bone jut this way and that until Liam’s squeezing his hips, leaving bruising fingers into his thighs, harder and harder until Zayn is hissing. But he’s smiling, sneaking his fingers back to his chest, flicking his thumbs over his hardened nubs while Liam growls, bites at the soft flesh above Zayn’s thighs.

“Stop _touching_ yourself.”

Zayn only means to glance down, is too focused on trying to come, trying to get his dick in the back of Liam’s throat some time before Christmas. It’s a mistake because his breath catches again, and this time it has nothing to do with the pleasure of skin on skin, only the bliss that comes from looking at Liam in this light—the moonlight. It breaks through the curtains, shrouds Liam’s profile in shadows, light disappearing into the dimple of his torn lip.

He’s in entirely too deep, too deep to recover from right now.

“Do I have something on my face?” There’s a questioning hum that travels up Zayn’s thigh forcing him to look at Liam’s eyes, big and seemingly innocent and Zayn knows that isn’t true, doesn’t help him not fall for the rouse in the long run. Doesn’t make it any harder to push himself into the abyss and pull Liam up by the scruff of his neck again, kissing him first this time. Matching grins sliding against one another, tongues tangling while Liam busies himself with wrapping a huge hand around both of their dicks, lining them up for a second, velvet on velvet while Zayn breathes moans into his mouth.

He breaks away. “So, nothing on my face, then?”

“Not yet,” Zayn sighs, wiggling his hips, dick falling out of Liam’s grip and back against his belly, red and throbbing—he’s needy. “Get back to business and I’ll—shit, _your mouth_ —I’ll see what I can do about that.”

“Who’s the dirty one now?”

“I learned from the _—Liam—_ best.”

Liam crawls back down and raises his hands in surrender when he doesn’t do anything for a second too long. Zayn’s eyes look around, darting to find a place of concentration so he won’t burst at the image of Liam smearing Zayn across his lips. “I’m going to regret this in the morning.”

The blunt scratch of Liam’s nails draw Zayn’s attention downward, where Liam’s lost, breathing in scents at the soft curls basing of Zayn’s cock. “Skin’s so soft,” he laments, chin tickling Zayn in all the right places, making it burn, rubbing just hard enough at the inside of his thighs to remind Zayn of this in the morning. “I want to scratch you up, fuck.”

He licks at every strip of skin his lips can find, Liam does—his tongue a faint echo, retracing the skin Liam’s already covered with torn lips and coarse scruff. “Do it,” he’s fucking begging. For a good cause, because his boner is actually starting to hurt. And Liam gets to rut himself into the mattress, work his hand around his shaft every once in a while—Zayn’s not even allowed to touch his friggin’ nipples. It’s not—shit, it’s not fair. Zayn feels the tension in the knobs of his spin as he arches, comes off the bed to plead. “I want to feel it. Want to feel y—just _do it._ ”

Zayn’s irritated at the teasing licks Liam takes at his cock, greedily lapping up pre-come from his slit while his hands raise Zayn’s hips with hard grips, nails sinking into tense muscles while he bunches covers to lift Zayn to his face, dick grazing his cheek. Instead of putting it into his mouth, giving Zayn what he wants, Liam noses at his thigh, fucker.

He’s smiling while Zayn’s trying not to fall apart.

There’s pressure around the ring of muscle, and no, no— _shit._ Liam’s mouth falls open in time to catch the fast rise of Zayn’s prick, hitting the back of his throat, spittle dripping down the sides of his needy little mouth, finger still tracing circles Zayn’s smooth hole. He’s a fucking—genius. A god amongst men, anything he wants to be as long as he never stops. “Yeah, _Liam._ ”

It helps on several different platitudes that Liam can’t say anything with his mouth full of Zayn’s dick, though that doesn’t stop him, sending vibrations that reach Zayn’s toes through his body, even if actual words aren’t said. Zayn moves up into Liam’s mouth in bursts, small and frantic, hand at the back of his head, spit falling into his lap. It’s messy and gross and glorious and Zayn never wants to move from this spot.

Shit.

“I’m gonna—get up.” Zayn urges Liam to move, tries to pull out of Liam’s mouth, but doesn’t succeed, stops when Liam whines in the back of his throat, finger moving around move at the cleft of Zayn’s hole, first knuckle dangerously close to breaching him and _fuuuck_ —he’s bobbing now. “I’m gonna cum, Liam. Fucking _move._ ”

He doesn’t do anything, just moves his head up and down, catches the swollen pout of his lips on the tip of Zayn’s dick before plunging back down, using his free hand to pump Zayn into his mouth, palm slipping down his shaft, squeezing and bobbing and letting his the nail of his thumb graze his slit and he’s coming.

Zayn can feel his mouth going slack, beads erupting into Liam’s mouth and leaking down the sides of his chin, dripping until Zayn regains feeling in his toes and the tension on his stomach and chest and fingers goes away. And then Liam’s kissing Zayn, lips attached to his hole, just kissing, a joining of lips to skin that Zayn hasn’t had touched in a long time. He can tell Liam’s come too, can feel some of it on his calf, only wishes he could have been a part of it, vows to change that once he’s not so fucking tired.

Liam crawls back up to Zayn, smiles at him like he doesn’t have nut all over the bottom half of his profile. It’s infectious though, makes Zayn grin back and accept a kiss that’s sticky with more than just spit and sweat.

“Do I have something on my face now?”

“You’re fucking disgusting—but _god,_ you’re cute.”

**Author's Note:**

> Good, bad???? 
> 
> I'll take a chance to tell you all that this idea has been haunting me forever and I'm nowhere near done with it, BUT I have every intention of updating/writing for Everything You Want, don't worry. I'm doing Big Bang, has everyone heard about it? I'm doing a collab, so if you have any ideas, shoot 'em to me in a tumblr ask???? 
> 
> You're all lovely and I have more of this ready to edit and post if you enjoy it? It's more of a slow-burn but the sex should be quite good and I'm kind of in love with asshole!Liam. 
> 
> Tell me what'cha think!! :D


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